


The Idiot

by Arcwin



Series: A Series of Challenges [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bondage and Discipline, Bottom!Lock, Captain John Watson, Dom!John, Dom/sub Play, Domestic Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Smut, For Science John, John is Going to Finish His Tea, M/M, Military Kink, Mind Palace, Orders, POV Sherlock Holmes, Praise Kink, Sherlock Holmes Experiments on John Watson, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Sherlock is a bossy bottom, The game is on, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-01-29 12:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12631485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin
Summary: 1/8/18 Finally complete!!Sherlock, in a bout of tremendous wisdom, decides to create an experiment measuring (viaThe Rage Scale, naturally) John’s reactions to various types of experiments in the flat. You know, for science. And to make sure John never withholds sex from him again. Obviously.





	1. Two Weeks

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-JAWN, my dear--thank you for the inspiration and ideas to get this one rolling! <3
> 
> Set after Relevance, but you don't need to read Relevance first! Hope you enjoy!

“Sherlock!? You have GOT to be kidding me!”

Blink. Blink again.What is going on? Why is John shouting at...at _me_? What? _Busy._  Back to my current experiment--testing flammability of skin samples at varying time frames post-mortem. Currently--12 hours post--

“SHERLOCK! Are you even listening to me!?”

Volume increased by 10 decibels. _John_ can’t you see I’m--

_Oh._

Oh, he’s _cross_.

No, _beyond cross._ **Infuriated.**

Oh no. _Sigh._ Eyeroll. This will certainly delay my conclusions and subsequent update to the site. Pity. I know of at least a few fans who are anxiously awaiting these results.

He’s roaring at me, finger waving around, eyes wild, face red. Something about fire safety? Obviously I have a fire extinguisher somewhere...sure I could find it if needed. (It won’t be. I know what I’m doing)

And now he’s on about the _smell_?

“Well, _of course_ it smells, John. It’s human skin. Don’t think it’s an evolutionary advantage as a species to _enjoy_ the scent of cooking another of our kind--”

“HUMAN SKIN? You’re burning HUMAN SKIN!? Did you even--where did you even get that? Has it been tested for disease?” He’s got his hand on his forehead now and is nearly vibrating in anger. Looks like I crossed a line somewhere…? Don’t see what the big deal is.

“I _really_ doubt Molly Hooper would have given me diseased skin samples, John. Don’t be an--”

“A _what_ , Sherlock? An IDIOT?!”

Shit. _Oh shit._

“No, uh, I mean--” What do I say? Can I fix this? (Nope)

“I know exactly what you mean,” he replies, his voice even. To others, it may seem as though he’s calming down...I know better. He’s so enraged he may _actually_ kill me this time.

Oh...oh no. He’s **smiling.** Icy dread fills my chest. I swear I feel my heart stop momentarily. I'm rooted to the spot, feet feel like lead. Looks like today _is_ the day I die. Always suspected it would be at the hands of my dear blogger.

“I need some air, Sherlock. **Don’t** text me. And you will stop this **right now** and clean it up completely before I get back, **understood**?” he commands. ( _LOVE_ his Captain voice)

Stop it--John is furious at me. **STOP IT**.

Why is he looking at me like that? Eyebrows raised, eyes wide, gaze intense...and now the sharp nasal inhalation (which I lovingly call the ‘rage sniff’--never to his face, obviously). _Oh_ , he’s awaiting confirmation that I heard him and will comply.

“Understood?!” he barks.

“Yes, John.”

“Good. I’m off. I mean it--no texts.”

And there he goes.

****SLAM****

Sigh. Massive eyeroll. _Honestly_.

(At least he didn't kill me)

Well, it ought to be at least three hours before he returns. Enough time to finalize results and _then_ clean. Might even have time to post it to the site before he’s back. Although, if I show completed results he will know I directly ignored a portion of his order.

(If he even looks)

(Doubtful)

Back to incinerating the 12 hour post-mortem sample…

* * *

Five hours 23 minutes 37 seconds.

38 seconds.

39 seconds.

40 seconds.

Is he breathing _all_ the air in bloody London!? Why isn’t he back yet? This clearly was NOT the worst experiment he’s ever come home to. He is overreacting. _Tedious_. Relationships are so complicated. Why do I even bother?

_‘Sentiment, perhaps, little brother?’_

Sigh. So dogmatic. Doesn’t seem to matter whether it’s reality or merely in my Mind Palace, Mycroft always seems to be right. And what do _you_ know about sentiment, Mycroft?

 _‘I know you seem to suffer from sentiment when it comes to Dr. Watson,’_ Mycroft replies apathetically.

I don’t _suffer_ from it. Go away. You’re a waste of my time right now.

 _‘Oh? Because you’re_ **_so very busy_ ** _at the moment, waiting for him to return? Try not to destroy your flat--you know how it upsets him so...’_

I mean it. Go away. NOW.

Look around again. Did I clean enough? I removed everything from before, even wiped down the table. Put it all outside in the bins. Hope it doesn’t attract any wild animals -- then I’d really hear about it. Stalk around the flat -- try to see it through John’s eyes. He’ll notice the clean table. _And_ the completely covered countertops and full sink. Sigh. Technically he only mentioned cleaning things _related_ to the experiment. Should I do more? Ehhh…unnecessary.

Five hours twenty-five minutes fifteen seconds.

I should text him.

 _‘No…,’_ Mycroft reminds.

Why not?

_‘You know why.’_

But maybe he wants me to. (I know he doesn’t)

Hateful. **Waiting is hateful.**

Stalk around the flat _again_. Maybe I could start a new--

Wait, no. That’s what got me into this mess. _Idiot_.

Violin. That’s what I’ll do. Some Bach will distract me…

* * *

Okay. This is getting ridiculous.

Six hours four minutes fifteen seconds.

I’m texting him, Mycroft. _Try and stop me._

>>John Watson

     >>Send message

     <Baker street. Come at once.>

Wait...too demanding?

Yes, too demanding.

>>John Watson

     >>Send message

     <Please come home.>

Okay, I’m going to send it.

Yes.

I’m…

Okay. _Definitely_ going to send it.

This is it.

I--

 **SHIT**. There’s the door. He’s home!

_Delete delete delete delete delete delete delete_

Uh...what should I be doing? It’s 2 AM. Wait, it’s TWO AM!?! Must have gone for a pint (or 15 considering how _long_ he’s been gone) with Lestrade. Maybe he’s drunk. Would that be good? (Unclear) Brain--racing with norepinephrine. Tachycardia. Diaphoresis. _Cutis anserina_ on my forearms. Am I afraid? Ridiculous. Why would I be afraid? I’m not afraid of John. (I’m only afraid of losing him)

 **Focus.** _Shut up_ , brain. Need to listen. Footsteps are clearly delineated, firm, steady. No sway. No slipping on the steps. _Not_ drunk. Doesn’t seem angry--not stomping. Just...just sounds like John.

 _Good._ This is **_good_** _._

Ooh, maybe... _maybe_ he’s calmed down enough for some makeup sex? (Tachycardia again) Now that would be _fantastic_ after the exceedingly frustrating and rather DULL evening I’ve had. I’ll sit in my chair--legs splayed, head resting back--he does love my throat, after all. _Time to tempt._

He’s...not even looking at me. Has he even seen me? No--hanging his coat. Kicking off his shoes. Ignoring me? Clear my throat to catch his attention.

“Oh, you’re still awake?” he asks, startled.

Nod. Continue displaying myself for him. “I was waiting for your return, John,” I purr.

He nods, then makes a quiet humming sound acknowledging me while his eyes drink me in. I hear his breath quicken and imagine his heart hammering in his chest at the sight of me. He _knows_ what I'm offering. He must know.

Wait--what!? Where...what is he…

He’s going to bed.

Upstairs.

**UPSTAIRS.**

Sigh. I really messed up this time.

 **Shit**.

* * *

Two weeks. It has been two bloody weeks and John is still holding out on me. Must do something. Can’t stand it anymore. I’ve tried everything I can think of and he refuses to have sex with me.

1) Kissed him good morning, slowly and deeply, tongue flicking in and out of his mouth (the way he likes) while I grabbed his arse and pulled him against me.

“Good morning to you too, Sherlock,” was all I got in return before he walked away. Irritating.

2) Surprised him from behind and snaked my hands under his shirt while I nibbled on his earlobe, hips rutting gently against his arse.

“Hmm…,” he hummed contentedly before pulling away and muttering something about going to work. _Honestly_.

3) Spent two days wearing _only_ the sheet and moaned erotically about everything--good, bad, or otherwise. His responses included a few casual glances and occasional eyerolls before he returned to the paper or his blog. **_Really!?_ **

4) Join him in the shower.

“You’re that impatient? Just hang on, Sherlock, I’m nearly done.”

“Really not the point, John.”

Thought I might succeed that time--his eyes roved over my nude body, pausing on my obvious arousal as his breath hitched and vasodilation covered his cheeks. I stared at his mouth, watching his tongue flick out to slide along his bottom lip in an obvious tell of _want_. He seemed to have an internal struggle, hands twitching at his sides, eyes hooded and pupils dilated, body leaning unconsciously towards mine--until he shook his head to clear away whatever beautifully filthy thoughts he was having and fled the shower. **_Hateful._ **

* * *

At one week into the ridiculously irritating drought…

5) Whatever furniture John occupied, I also occupied. No more personal space.

“Mmmph...Sher...mmph…”

“Yes, John?”

“Mmmmmphhhh….”

I shifted, allowing him enough space to breathe and repeat himself. “There is other furniture, you know.”

Considered the option. Nope.

“Not suitable. Much prefer laying over you. You’re actually comfortable, you know,” I stated while yawning and stretching like a lazy cat, arching my torso and grinding my arse into his lap. He fought back a groan before allowing his breath to hiss between his teeth.

“Well, it may be comfortable for you but it’s making it challenging for me to do...well...anything,” he replied, squirming beneath me.

“On the contrary, I know several things you could do with me in your lap, John,” I purred while licking a stripe up the side of his neck.

A shudder. Breathy moan. Eyes closed, clearly in an effort to maintain self control.

“Sherlock...ungh...Sherlock please, I--I...I need to--”

Sucked on his earlobe before dipping my tongue in the hollow of his ear. Surely I’d win this time. I could feel him beneath my arse, hardening and rubbing against me.

“I...I need to use the loo, Sherlock,” he finally got out, clearing his throat.

 **LIAR**. Ooh, _such_ a liar. Such a _bad boy_ , Dr. Watson.

Deep breath while I stared into his eyes, showing him every bit of my obvious _need._  “Yes, all right, John. Go relieve yourself. I’ll be waiting right here for you,” I murmured before extracting myself from his lap excruciatingly slowly, wriggling my hips a few times first and eliciting another moan.

He was absent for an _hour_ \--clearly either composing himself or masturbating (definitely both). I spent the hour imagining him: sweating, trembling, pants around his ankles while he stroked himself slowly...head falling back onto his shoulders while his breath hitched and shuddered. I thought of him nearing orgasm, quiet sounds of ecstasy escaping his perfect lips, hand moving faster, harder, thumb occasionally swiping to collect beads of arousal for lubrication.

While I waited, picturing him pleasuring himself, I trailed my own fingers along the sensitive skin on my inner thighs, moaning loudly enough that he _must_ have heard me. Assuredly why it took so long for him to return, and why once he did he let out a vague gurgling noise at the sight of me (both hands in my pants, head thrown back wantonly, panting) and promptly left the flat to ‘get some shopping _._ ’

 **EXASPERATING**.

At that moment, I knew.

**The Game Is On.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Tachycardia: increased heart rate  
> Diaphoresis: cold sweat  
>  _cutis anserina_ : goosebumps  
> Norepinephrine: adrenaline


	2. I Do Not Apologize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘Why not just ask him what’s wrong, little brother? Set aside that absurd pride of yours and apologize for your slight?’_
> 
> No. I do **not** apologize. He’s overreacting. Two weeks, Mycroft. **TWO WEEKS.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my beta-Jawn, helping me balance out Sherlock and John properly. <3

I continued my temptations for the following week, each one increasing in intensity.

6) Followed John around less than 1 metre away and pressed myself against him every time he stood still--usually trapping him between me and other objects.

Most promising situation included the wall in the downstairs hallway--the first place we ever kissed. I perfectly recreated the memory, except this time it was _I_ who shoved my knee between _his_ legs, _I_ who threaded my fingers into _his_ hair and ground my hips on him. He knew, obviously, what I was doing and responded favourably, parting his lips to give my tongue access to his hot and wanting mouth. I tortuously thrust in and out, stopping to occasionally nip at his bottom lip or suck at his tongue. He moaned and clung to me, fingers scrabbling at the small of my back in an attempt to draw me closer.

I felt my neurons firing spastically, flooding my body with a frankly gorgeous cocktail of norepinephrine, dopamine, and oxytocin. A familiar warmth curled low in my abdomen as I rubbed myself against him, relishing the increasing friction and pressure. My blood raced through my veins, setting my nerves on fire.

“Oh, _John,_ ” I moaned into his neck, climbing steadily towards orgasm. I reached a hand between us, seeking his belt, when an utterly hateful sound interrupted us.

“Yoo-hoo!”

Oh, I could have killed her.

Well, not _really_ , but…

John’s firm hands were suddenly on my chest, pushing me away. I could have screamed in frustration. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” he replied calmly, giving me his patented warning stare. I glared back at him venomously. How could he be so calm!?

“Seems the boiler is acting up again. My flat is freezing!” she proclaimed as she entered our view. “Funny, you two don’t seem cold at all, though. Is it just me?”

Too furious to reply, I glanced at John. “No, it does seem cold. Let’s take a look, shall we? Sherlock--meet you upstairs?”

I _swear_ he had a downright evil grin on his face, knowing he was still holding out. Could’ve killed him _too_ for being such an arsehole.

Ended that evening with a massive sulk.

7) Started sleeping completely, utterly naked.

Suddenly, he required additional loo trips or middle of the night strolls. Proximity to my nude form was having an impact on his self control. Obviously whatever point he was trying to make was getting harder and harder to stick to.

* * *

And now...now it’s been two weeks. If I don’t have sex with John Watson in the next hour, I will very clearly die. I believe I read somewhere that lack of regular orgasm can cause some serious medical problems. He’s a _doctor_ , he should be aware of this. He’s endangering my life with this utterly _ridiculous_ behaviour.

_‘Why not just ask him what’s wrong, little brother? Set aside that absurd pride of yours and apologize for your slight?’_

No. _I do not apologize._ He’s overreacting. Two weeks, Mycroft. **TWO WEEKS**.

I need it. I **need** a fix. John is my fix. _He_ knows it. _You_ know it. All of bloody London knows it!

**I NEED A--**

“Sherlock? You okay?”

Shutter blink. Are you blind, John? Of course I’m NOT okay.

“You look...I dunno, not well. Do you feel ill?” He walks towards me, placing a hand on my forehead to check my temperature. I watch his eyes as he continues assessing, looking me over for signs of distress. They pause when they reach my groin, my arousal evident through the thin silk of my dressing gown. His breath catches, then quickens as the hand on my forehead twitches.

I _cannot_ take it any longer.

I _need_ …

I _need_ John.

**NOW.**

His eyes return to mine--they’ve changed. **Predatory.** He needs me too. _Obvious._

 **TWO BLOODY WEEKS!** (He _better_ need me like I need him right now)

I lean closer, towering over him. He drops his hand to rest it on the side of my neck, thumb stroking my jugular slowly. His perfect tongue sneaks out of his mouth to wet his bottom lip--I feel electricity jolt through my body, going straight to my cock.

 _Nothing_ is going to stop this.

What--no! **No!** He’s starting to pull away! **NO YOU DON’T JOHN WATSON!**

“No,” I growl. “No more. I--I can’t take this anymore. Give it to me.”

A slow, measured smirk. I watch his tongue move around inside his mouth, running along his teeth. His eyebrows raise slightly, eyes narrow as he considers my demand. Suddenly his presence expands, shoulders squaring, spine straightening, jaw working. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. The air leaves the room. His hand tightens ever so slightly on my the side of my throat. He seems...he almost seems...angry? Annoyed?

“ _Give_ it to you, Sherlock?” he asks slowly, incredulous. “Give you **_what_ ** , exactly?”

He’s... _oh._ I _challenged_ him. He’s asserting his dominance. He’s in control. He’s **always** in control. (Oh God, love it) He’s making me say it. Making me ask. Making me _submit._ The surge of neurotransmitters blurs my vision, shoots up my blood pressure, and makes me _ache_ for him.

“ _You,_ ” I breathe out, edge of a sob colouring my voice. _Hate_ ( **love** ) that he can reduce me to a quivering mass so easily.

His hand flexes briefly and he draws me down towards him, pausing before our lips touch. I feel his breath blanket my face. “Why would I do that,” he responds, voice even and hard. It’s not even a question.

I can feel the heat from his body--he’s _so_ close, yet keeping himself at a distance. It’s _torture._ **Trembling.** I’m trembling. Oh, _God_ , I **need** him. I’m barely breathing. Pulse pounding, legs shaking, face tingling in an obvious blush.

“I...I _need_ you, John,” I gasp out as his other hand closes unexpectedly on my almost painfully hard erection. All I can feel are our two points of contact, the two places he’s allowing me to be touched.

Silk--hand--gripping--sliding--ohhhhhhhh!

“Apologize for what happened,” he commands quietly.

I-- **ah** \--oh he’s _stroking_ \--his hand on my neck, still firm--oh God oh **YES**!

My knees nearly buckle-- **two weeks** \--ohhhh…. “Yes, John, oh, yesssss….,” I hiss.

Wait! What? Why? Hands are gone!? What? Heart racing even faster, nearly hyperventilating at the sudden lack of contact.

“Apologize, Holmes. That’s an order.”

 _Holmes_!? What--what…? Really!? Did he _honestly_ just call me...

His eyes--cold. Calculating. He’s waiting, hands at his sides, posture relaxed. Lean towards him, reach--

“No.”

Ooh, I _hate/need/love/want/hate_ him!

“I...ah...I’m...sorry,” I mutter under my breath.

“You’re what? Didn’t quite hear you. Try again.”

Deep breath. Clench teeth. “I’m sorry, John.”

Head cocks to the side. A smirk. “You’re...sorry? Never thought of you as being _sorry_ , Sherlock,” he replies, chuckling.

What? I...oh. Right. Uh.... shit, what am I supposed to say? Not supposed to say sorry. Military thing. _Focus_. _Need to focus._  I’m...I’m not sorry. No. Impossible to think--blood in the wrong part of my body. Hateful. Need...need to...what? How am I supposed to think when I can barely breathe, so full of pure need!?

Oh, that’s right! _Oh!_

“I...ah...I apologize,” I say louder, more forcefully.

He’s considering. Accept it, John. Accept it.

_Please._

**_I_** **_need you._**

“Apology accepted. Now,” he pauses, licking his lips. “...beg.”

If I could melt into a puddle at this moment, I would.

“ _Please, John…_ ,” I whine, heart rate racing out of control. I’m leaning towards him again, closing the distance between us.

“Please what?”

God I hate (love) him.

Fuck me.

Fuck me.

Fuck me _goddammit!_

“Planning on telling me what you want, Sherlock?”

Didn’t I? I’m basically screaming it at you!

Oh, must not have...must not have said it out loud. _Really_ wish my mouth would get on board with my brain. Stupid mouth, always forgetting to actually work!

“Please, just... _please_ , John…”

Eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

 **“Fuck** me, John!” I nearly shout at him.

He’s smiling, familiar crinkle forming near his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, eclipsing all colour. The smile--similar to his murderous one. He can’t be angry...no. He’s... _oh_ . He has complete control and _loves it_. (As do I)

“Language, Sherlock, language. We still have to work...on...your...language,” he responds, punctuating each word with a firm squeeze (!!!) on my silk clad prick.

Ohhhhhh--ah--I-- _oh_ \--

“Yeah...yes...yes, John…,” I manage to get out between gasps.

“Bedroom. Now.”

Dear god yes! Turn to stalk away, nearly running--

“No. Stop. Leave your clothes here.”

Freeze. Breathe. Another look at him might undo me completely. If I avert my eyes, perhaps…

“Come here. Face me. Look at me, Sherlock.”

Swallow, breathe. Breathe. _Breathe_. I can do this.

Strip. Silk slithering off my shoulders, sliding down my back--smooth, tantalizing, setting my nerves alight. He’s watching, eyes darting all over me as I expose myself for him. Head tilt towards the bedroom--a command. Take one last look at him--he’s standing at ease, face flushed and ears pink as he stares at my copiously leaking cock, bobbing at attention just for him. His gaze meets mine--intense--then flicks towards the bedroom.

Ooh, Captain. _Yes sir._

I stride away before he can change his mind and hear him follow with short, purposeful steps, his cadence even. Hate how in control he can be of himself. (Love how in control he is of me)

As I turn to face him, I’m nearly startled by his immediate proximity. He stares at my face, an obviously aroused glint in his eyes, before finally, _brilliantly_ touching me.

Rough hands in my hair--tangling, scraping, tugging, smoothing--

Lips in every place I want, need--jaw, neck, pulse point, earlobe, clavicle, nipple-- _OH JOHN!_

I’m swimming, swirling, drowning--sensations everywhere--every touch feels electric, perfect, _brilliant!_

Blanket of dopamine, tunnel vision, hearing clouded, hyperfocused on John.

John.

John.

John! **Ohhhhh John!**

Careful and firm grip on my hips, fingers pressing around the bones as he turns me to face away from him, towards the bed-- _oohhh yes_ \--know what he _wants_ , know what he _needs_ , what _I need_ \--

Forehead touching the duvet--soft, pillowy, cool, cotton.

My hips press back involuntarily, seeking...seeking... _seeking_ …

“Be still,” he commands, voice steady. Always in control. ( **Perfection** )

Barely hear myself moaning, gasping, keening--God I _need…_

Breath by my ear, tongue on my jawline--fire, raw, glorious!

Heat behind me, pressing against me. Skin on skin. “Oh, yes!” I growl into the bed, struggling to keep myself from bucking back into him--struggling to keep still. Struggling…

“Don’t you dare move, Sherlock.”

Every cell--humming, vibrating. Oh, that **_voice_** , commanding me, challenging me, expecting submission, wanting me to defy--torn between both, how I want to do both!

Oh, oh, oh _yes_ John, oh he’s...oh I feel…

His fingers are everywhere _except_ where I really want them (of course). Tracing, dancing, feather-light touches--every moment a surprise, a jolt that threatens to dissolve my self control completely. (Be still, **be still** …)

“Fuck, Sherlock, you’re amazing...so good at listening, so good at following my orders...”

I feel a swell of pride inside me at his praise, basking in it--oh, **OH!**

Pressure, gorgeous pressure-- _ohhh_ \--he’s entering me slowly, torturously, with his index finger, every millimetre sending fireworks through my body, threatening to force me to spasm and move, disobeying his order. **BE STILL**. Ooh, this...this...this feels... _impossible_!

Pain on my shoulder--a bite, a reminder of his command--sharp, then soothed with a kiss, love, gentle…

More pressure, another, oh _yes_ another-- **GASP** \--his fingers are perfect! Twisting, thrusting, sliding inside me, stretching me slowly-- **NEED MORE!** (Still, stay still!)

Hand resting on the back of my neck. He loves my throat, loves to hold me by it while he takes  me, loves to feel my pulse race and breath hitch. Always in control, _ooh John_ (be still) in control of me.

Ohohohohoh _ohohoh_ ** _ohoh!!!!_** Oh, he’s oh! “There _there_ **there** **_there_** oh please there!” I’m whining, begging, pleading. “John!” shouting, dissolving, oh **_please don’t stop!_**

A growl, a clench on my neck, fingers gone from inside me (NO!) but quickly replaced by him _oh_ _yes_ he’s inside me, he’s so...so…(have to stay...stay...nngh stay!) I--I can’t--oh God--it’s too much, _exactly right_ , never enough! My fists are twisted in the duvet, my thighs pressed firmly against the bed. My body is quaking, I’m barely able to keep myself still, have to move...have to... _have to_ …

“ **Move!** _Move_ with me, Sherlock, **now!** ” he nearly shouts as he reaches around my waist to wrap his nimble fingers around...oh, ah, yes right--right--right there!

Senses overloaded, racing, everything at once. **(LOVE IT!)**

Panting, hot breath on my shoulders. The slap of skin against skin as he drives into me. His growling, grunting moans as he gives in and fucks me raw just like I begged him to-- _oh yes like I begged him to_! Calloused palm and fingers pulling, sliding, cork screwing up and down my shaft in time with his thrusts--and _there there there_! **_Oh there_**! Oh **_GOD_ ** I’m shouting unintelligibly, my body is screaming in pleasure **_OH JOHN YES_ ** please don’t--please just-- ** _OH GOD PLEASE!_ **

“Come for me, Sherlock,” whispered firmly in my ear. A demand shooting straight through me, eliminating every last ounce of control.

White hot sparks exploding, enveloping! Glorious! Overdrive, muscles spasming, clenching, pulsing, trembling. Synapses firing spastically, feel the flood, body electric--” **OH GOD JOHN!** ” Shouting moaning writhing _amazing amazing amazing!_

Gone gone, I’m gone, floating, drifting, bliss, perfection (could die right now)...

John John John…

“Oh, Sherlock, oh fuck, that’s--oh! Oh, mmmmm!” he groans as he stiffens, seated deep inside me, filling me. _Ooh yes_ , filling me, **claiming** me.

**_His._ **

(Love it)

Sweat covered weight collapses onto my back--his legs are shaking. He can barely stand, and I can barely keep us supported. We shift and land on the bed, side by side, arms and legs tangled together. Breath regulating, heart rates slowing, body temperatures decreasing as we return to reality. Feel his nose nuzzle my neck at the base of my curls, contentedly humming. He slowly runs his fingers along my pectoral muscles, feather light touches. Almost _too_ much with my current hypersensitivity from such an intense orgasm mere moments ago.

“Mmm, gorgeous, Sherlock. Perfect,” he croons into my hair. “Missed doing that with you.”

Mind snaps awake at the reminder.

**Two weeks.**

_Never again_.

Must ensure that never happens again. How? Need to continue my experiments--he knows how necessary they are to the Work. He’s aware of his role here--said it himself back in the cab at the end of our first case.

He’s the affair to my marriage with the Work. The distraction, the lover. I crave him, _require_ him--but the Work comes first. _Can’t_ stop the experiments. Clearly I crossed a line with the last one. Need to determine where that line is _exactly_ so I never cross it again.

How? How do I know?

Of course. ( _Stupid_ )

Data. **Need data**.

An experiment. _Obvious_. I will design an experiment to test John’s reactions to a variety of scientific topics, gather the data, measure his responses with an objective scale...determine through real data the point at which I could push him too far.

 _Ooh, yes_ . This is going to be fun. A puzzle. A _challenge._

He’s snoring gently, body heavy on the mattress behind me. I almost envy him--I won’t, can’t sleep now. **Need to** **think**.


	3. Relax, You're Doing Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are pathetically inadequate in your contributions when compared with John.”  
> Of course, I can’t discuss this with John.  
>  _Obviously._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get in, losers. It's time for SCIENCE.

“Let’s start with the known facts, shall we?” (So very glad I found my skull again. Mrs. Hudson is rubbish at hiding _anything_ from me)

Fact 1:  I do experiments.

Fact 2:  They are occasionally (often) somewhat dangerous and/or messy.

Fact 3:  While I _do_ have access to Barts, doing experiments there requires me to do something I find particularly challenging and tedious-- _socializing_. **Dreadful**.

Fact 4:  I own an impressive amount of (questionably obtained) laboratory equipment and have a decent amount of space available to use it in.

“So, skull--what conclusion does this lead us to?”

“Skull?”

 **Sigh**.

“You are pathetically inadequate in your contributions when compared with John.”

Of course, I can’t discuss this with John.

_Obviously._

“Looks like you’ll have to do.”

So! Conclusion! I prefer to conduct my experiments in the efficiently accessible comfort and relative quiet of my own flat.

“Next!”

Fact 1:  John lives here.

Fact 2:  John has opinions about many things--most notably, _right_ and _wrong_.

Fact 3:  Occasionally, John deems things I do as _wrong_ , despite whatever logical, objective, _correct_ argument I present. (Irritating and downright irrational)

Fact 4:  When John has a particularly strong opinion that something I _have_ done, _am_ doing, or _will_ do, is **wrong** , he reacts in unpleasant ways. Punishment, usually. (Completely, utterly disproportionate punishment--hardly even _related_ to whatever he thinks he’s _punishing_ )

Additionally, these punishments aren’t even the enjoyable kind that he gives me when I’m feeling especially rebellious. No, he does frankly _ridiculous_ things like leave the flat for well over **six hours** and then withhold sex of every kind for **two weeks** (!!!), turning me into a quivering mass of bloody hormones.

What was that? Oh, I’ve knocked over the side table next to his chair during my internal rant and agitated pacing. Serves him right, putting me through such torture!

(Don't be an idiot, Sherlock. Fix the table)

Sigh. _Focus_. (Bring it upright again) Need to **focus**. Must design experiment to prevent exactly that scenario from ever happening again. Can’t have that absurd situation repeating itself.

Although...the conclusion _was_ enjoyable.

**No.**

**NO--** not worth it. Stop it! Focus! Stop getting distracted!

“Okay, skull. Next conclusion.” There is a clearly delineated line between right and wrong (the bounds of which I am unaware of) for John regarding my behaviour and when I cross it, the consequences are **catastrophic**. _Unfair_.

So, clearly, the question becomes the following: where is the line when it comes to my experiments?

Let’s consider variables, now. The independent variable, obviously, is the type of experiment I am conducting. I’ll need to gather preliminary observations about John’s predispositions towards a wide array of the hard sciences and deduce which are the most probable to cause an adverse reaction and aforementioned catastrophic outcome. Once I narrow the choices down, I can explore each option thoroughly.

The dependent variable is John’s response, clearly. I’ll need to design a scale of measurement to accurately assess and document his response. This will be challenging considering I cannot ask him for a self report of his emotional reactions. (Although, self report is wildly inaccurate and unreliable--I suppose it won’t matter that he cannot tell me.) I will need to spend some time considering his responses in varying degrees of distress to get a baseline idea of measurements.

This is beginning to take shape--time to enhance my thinking with chemical assistance. Would _love_ some nicotine--a cigarette, specifically. Oh, cigarettes, I miss you. Gave that all up awhile ago, though. _Doctor’s orders_. (Irritating) (He’s right, though)

Tea it is.

“Tea, skull? I’ll put the kettle on.”

No--you’re a skull.

Pathetic.

“Relax, you’re doing fine.”

I said that to John, once. Feels like it was another lifetime. Before he insinuated himself into my life, my work. No, _not_ before, actually. He has always been in me in some way, either in presence or absence. The moment I saw him at Barts, my world turned upside down, yet it felt like...like it was upside down _before_ , and John Watson came in and set it right. Saw that it was wrong, and fixed it for me. _With me_. I’ve been waiting my entire life in the upside down world for John Watson to reach in and pull me out. He’s always been there, the gap, the hole. The part I was missing to get the world right. Now he’s filled it.

_‘Waxing poetic, are we?’_

Yes, I suppose I am, Mycroft.

Oh, there’s the kettle. Tea. Shake my head. Clear the fog of sentiment. Need...need to focus on the task at hand.

“Sure you don’t want tea, skull? No? Suit yourself.”

God, I must look like a maniac, offering tea to a bloody skull while I design an experiment to test my lover’s limits for tolerating potentially dangerous scientific testing in our home.

All in an effort to avoid being without sex for extended periods of time.

Oh...oh! **OH**! **Sex**!! Sex is a confound! (Idiot, of course it is!) Frequency of intercourse impacts John’s moods and reactivity substantially. (Naturally they impact mine much more--don’t have _nearly_ the control he has)

Need to design a schedule of regular sexual contact that ensures the least amount of impact on his overall reactions. Too little sex = increased annoyance and unnaturally higher scores on the rage scale. Too much sex = falsely padded scores, which in the long run would ruin my understanding of the boundaries of _right_ and _wrong_ in his eyes.

How often do we usually engage in physical intimacy? Need to find the average over the past...twelve weeks, starting with the most recent week. That ought to be sufficient to gather a baseline for the sexual contact schedule.

Week of November 5: 1x (Finally! Although, still lacking. Will need to fix that.)

Week of October 29:  0x ( **RUDE** )

Week of October 22:  5x

Week of October 15:  2x (case, obviously)

Week of October 8:  3x

Week of October 1:  8x (almost died previous week)

Week of September 24:  1x (kidnapped on Sunday afternoon-- _tedious_ )

Week of September 17:  4x

Week of September 10:  3x ( _A case!_ )

Week of September 3:  12x ( **BORED** )

Week of August 27:  6x (No case for nearly _3 weeks_ )

Week of August 20:  7x (No case for 2 weeks)

Average number of sexual encounters  : 4.33x/week

So, the schedule needs to include regular contact approximately every other day. Pedestrian. Shouldn’t be trouble, now that I’ve apologized. (Humiliating) (Necessary)

“Are there any other confounding variables to consider, skull?”

Hmm.

Oh. _Oh…_

 **Danger**. Right. Had considered declining cases so I could focus solely on this experiment. This will require most of my attention to be executed properly! However, John has...well, to be honest John is an addictive personality and requires a fix from time to time. (Fairly regularly, actually)

Takes an addict to know one.

Additionally, if I decline cases for too long, he may start to suspect something. Best not change the natural state we exist in too much. Replicating _in vivo_ is most accurate, after all.

“It’s decided, then.” Will continue to take cases...8 or better, obviously. No use running off for a bloody four. It won’t even get his heart rate up to 100bpm. Worthless.

Ugh, the tea is stone cold! Dreadful. Put the kettle back on. If John was here he would have reminded me to drink it. “Skull, you are slacking in your duties.”

Where is John, anyway?

Oh, right.

At work, being a dull GP.

 _BORING_.

“Right! Onto narrowing the scope of study to particularly relevant topics.”

Obvious fields to include: chemistry, physics, biology, microbiology, virology. All necessary to _The Work_ . All the most likely candidates to elicit a negative reaction (due to...danger? I assume?) _Eyeroll._ Rule out astronomy, geology, zoology. Useless--hardly pertinent. How many crimes have I solved involving _giraffes_?! Exactly zero. Unlikely to ever come up. Botany, now…botany is curious. A number of plants are incredibly toxic with fairly high lethality. Probable murder weapons at some point for a higher class of criminal, someone _clever_. Included, then. Anatomy--OBVIOUS. Entomology--fascinating, although may not be appropriate for this data set? Could come in handy, though. Is John squeamish about insects? Hadn’t noticed. May as well. At the very least it will provide a counterbalance to the clearly problematic (yet completely required) fields of study I **must** learn the boundaries of.

“Chemistry, physics, biology, microbiology, virology, botany, anatomy, entomology,” I announce to the skull. It stares back. Agreement. Moving on.

Finally--the scale of measurement. _The Rage Scale._

**Score**

| 

**Observation**

| 

**Consequences**  
  
---|---|---  
  
10

**(DANGER)**

| 

Murder smile

Quiet, hard voice

Narrowed eyes

Clenched jaw, fists

| 

Actual death at the hands of John Watson likely

NO SEX*  
  
9

| 

Leave flat for “air”

| 

Isolation

Loneliness

(Guilt?)  
  
8

| 

Yelling

Swearing

“Rage sniff”

| 

Verbal assaults

Silent treatment upon completion of outbursts  
  
7

| 

The “look”

| 

Ignoring me

Won’t bring me tea

(Fear, dread?)  
  
6

| 

Eyerolling

Sighing

| 

None noted  
  
5

| 

Is he even annoyed?

Impossible to tell.

| 

?????  
  
4

| 

?????

| 

?????  
  
3

| 

?????

| 

?????  
  
2

| 

?????

| 

?????  
  
1

| 

Reading paper

Smiling

Talking normally

| 

In the clear  
  
*Death, basically

Wait--how do I not have any idea of John’s lower level rage reactions? He must have them. It seems as though he switches from no response to a 6 remarkably easily. How do I miss the transition?

_‘Not relevant, perhaps?’_

What do you mean _not relevant_ , Mycroft? Everything about John is relevant.

_‘Is it?’_

Yes, of course it is, Mycroft.

_‘Hm.’_

**What.**

_‘Oh, nothing. I’m sure you have it well in hand.’_

**WHAT!? TELL ME.**

_‘Emotional nuance is hardly a strength of yours, brother mine.’_

I--

Yes, but--

This is John.

I know him. (Don’t I?)

_‘Seems not.’_

**Go away.**

…

The door. Is it 5 already? It is. Time to put you away, skull. John mustn’t know I found you. Your contributions were...good. Yes. Helpful. Appreciated.

“You did fine.”

“Sorry?” John asks as he enters the flat. “Were you talking to someone?”

Smirk. “Tea?”

“Yeah, thanks.” He’s giving me an odd look--confusion? Is he confused? Why would he be confused that I’m offering to make tea? Oh, I suppose I never do. Hmm. Lingering effects of sentiment, I suppose. “How was your day?” he asks.

“Dull,” I reply.

He chuckles. “Mine too.”

I watch as he heads to change out of his work clothing. _Oh, John_. This is going to make our lives very interesting for a while. Time to put the kettle on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that was less painful for you all to read as it was for me to write! Way more challenging to pull up a bunch of old knowledge of the scientific method than it is to write Sherlock being a sassy bottom.


	4. I'd Be Brilliant at Surgery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’d be brilliant at it, what with my anatomical and medical knowledge and strong, steady hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stage 1: Preliminary data collection  
> Additionally, must keep confounds in mind and ensure they don't skew the results.
> 
> Much love to my Beta-Jawn, helping me figure out how to write this chapter (the entire way through, cause damn it was a bit challenging!) and allowing me a quick diversion to start another fic I've been planning while I thought through this part. So much love and encouragement--thank you <3

“Sherlock? You’ve got post,” John announces as he enters the flat after work. He drops it on the desk next to me. “We’ve talked about this, Sherlock,” he chides. “What’s the excuse this time?”

I glance up at him, confused. I’m allowed post. Well, _most_ post. This particular package isn’t even dripping like the one that got me into trouble the last time. In fact, this package is completely, utterly benign. _Ordinary_.

“Was it out of reach? Battery dead? Regardless--” he pauses as he slams his laptop and yanks it away from me, tucking it under his arm. “You know I don’t like it when you hack into my laptop. It’s an invasion of privacy.”

Privacy? _Honestly_ , John. We share **everything** \--living space, food, money, the shower, the bed, bodily fluids-- _privacy!?_ What an absurd notion. Why is the laptop off limits? Wasn’t even reading his emails or latest draft this time. Just a bit of research. And “hack” is a bit of a stretch--his passwords are hardly MI5 quality.

“No comment? Doesn’t matter. Stop it,” he demands before striding away to hide it ( _hilarious_ ) from me.

Steeple my fingers. This is going exactly as planned. Later tonight when he opens his laptop, he won’t be able to help but notice the article I was reading--an interesting piece published in the Russian Journal of Applied Chemistry called “Specific features of the kinetics of autocatalytic combustion of sodium chlorate with polyethylene in a manometric bomb.” He usually works on his blog after supper--I’ll ensure I observe him closely for data collection.

“Going to open your package?”

What? Oh--he’s back. Hid his laptop in the third drawer up from the bottom of his bureau underneath his woolen jumpers. He knows wool irritates my skin. He’s hoping it will deter me.

(It won’t)

Ignore him. (I want _him_ to open it anyway)

“Ah--not talking to me today, are we?” He nods, annoyed. Eyes narrowed, arms crossed. Jaw working briefly before he continues. “Right. Ok--pass me that knife, would you?” I hand it over and make a point to keep looking straight ahead-- _not_ at him. Can’t give away my interest in his reactions to what is inside the box. Eye him out of my periphery as he pulls open the flaps.

“You’ve gotten some books, as if you need more. _Virology, Molecular Biology and Pathogenesis_ \--what, like diseases? Is this for a case?” Catalog his face--eyebrows raised, eyes wide, head tilted slightly down. Lips in a straight line. “Pathogensis...isn’t that how they spread? Oh, God, you aren’t going to figure out how to spread diseases, are you? Please tell me we aren’t getting sucked into something that could make us both ill. You’re _intolerable_ when you’re ill.”

I smirk. And here I thought I was just _always_ intolerable.

He’s awaiting my reply. Cannot speak until he’s done looking through my order--might sway the results if I say the wrong thing. I put my hand out, palm up, and he hands me the first book. If I had to rate this initial reaction, I’d give it a 2. Mild exasperation at the thought of us encountering (and possibly infected by?) disease. Interesting.

“And what’s this then? _Coronary Stenting_? Do you even own the companion book on interventional cardiology--wait. Why am I asking you this? **Who** are you... _please_ don’t attempt to perform surgery on **anyone** , Sherlock!” He’s pinching the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. Eyes squeezed shut. He’s gotten a hit of norepinephrine from his amygdala--the tells are all there. His heart rate has increased slightly, respiration quicker, vasodilation on his neck and creeping up to his cheeks. Significantly higher on the scale, clearly. Curious--when faced with personal harm he was much less concerned than imagining me performing surgery on somebody else. (Don’t see why--I’d be brilliant at it, what with my anatomical and medical knowledge and strong, steady hands.) I’d rate this response a 5, minimum.

Hold out my hand--he reluctantly passes me the book.

A sigh escapes his lips. “I’m not your butler, you know. I’m your partner. And _you_ can remove the rest of these books from this box. Clearly I’ll only be horrified or irritated if I keep looking, and I would much rather have a pleasant evening. _With_ _you_ , if you’ll stop the silent treatment and join me, Sherlock.”

Oh--

I--

Oh. Wasn’t expecting that. Was hoping to gather more data. But the look he’s giving me...it’s…

Gentle. Norepinephrine has metabolized, replaced by oxytocin and dopamine. This look, it’s...love.

Why? Illogical. Confusing. I’m confused? I am. He was angry a moment ago, imagining the likely scenarios in which I’d need such bizarre books, and now all I can see, all I can feel from him is sentiment. Why the shift? It’s puzzling. It doesn’t make sense. (Then again, many things about John are bewildering to me.) He should still be annoyed at me. I haven’t even spoken to him--

Ohhh--ohhhh his lips! Sweet, sliding, brilliant lips, parting slightly, our breath mingling, warm and tannic from afternoon tea.

Kind hands (hands can be kind?) carding through my curls, fingertips grazing my scalp, tracing swirls that send tingles down my spine and elicit _cutis anserina_ on the back of my neck.

When did my hands get under John’s shirt? Irrelevant...irrelevant…

His skin is soft here near the waistband of his trousers, covered in a fine cast of downy hair that I can just barely feel.

He pulls away, smiles, leans his forehead against mine. “All right?” he asks, glancing up at me through his (long, beautiful, perfect) lashes.

I nod, uncertainty evaporating.

“Fantastic. Do you want to get take away?” I watch his lips curl at the corners into a soft smile--the kind that crinkles the skin around his eyes. (My favorite kind)

Another nod. Can’t seem to tear my gaze away from analyzing every millimetre of his face, re-memorizing it. My throat feels unnaturally tight--no reason to stay silent now, yet I’m incapable of speech at the moment. His pupils dilate substantially and his breath hitches, then whispers out between his teeth.

Slow blink. Another. I watch his pulse throb along his jawline--90 beats per minute. _Excitement_. I feel my own breath quicken, my blood racing in response.

I _love_ what he does to me.

He chuckles. “Let’s order our take away before I get so turned on that I lay you across this desk and make you moan my name so loudly that Mrs. Hudson considers filing a noise complaint. I’m sure Lestrade doesn’t need to walk in on that!”

Have to giggle at the mental image of Lestrade barging in while John’s face is buried in my lap, swallowing me down while my fingers grip his hair, my voice echoing around the flat. A deep, erotic, “Joooohhhhhhnnnnn…..” and Lestrade beet red, promptly turning an about face while spluttering to himself and slamming the door behind him.

“No, you’re quite right,” I manage to croak out, voice rough with disuse and current...state.

“Chinese okay?” he asks, reaching into his pocket for his phone. I hum in approval. “Your usual...oh nevermind. I know it’s the same.” Off he walks to the kitchen to call.

 _Sigh_. Gathering data is turning out to be a bit more challenging than I expected. John can be so predictable at times, and then suddenly surprise me. I’ll need to expand my methods if I’m to stay on track with initial observations. Need more information. The two additional books I ordered, _Toxigenic Fusarium Species_ and _Forensic Entomology_ are necessary to catalog reactions to, especially considering how unsure I am about his predispositions to them. Perhaps I can bring these fields of study up in conversation during dinner.

Although...aren’t there etiquette rules regarding appropriate topics to discuss while eating? Toxic plants and forensic insects may fall into the _bit not good_ category. Do they? Why? Never understood such taboos. It’s not as if discussing these things while eating means we would be consuming them. Can’t people keep conversation and digestion separate in their pathetically small brains? It’s merely two different actions which don’t even use the same parts of the brain to process. _Pedestrian_.

John is more complex than most humans. He can be clever. No, he _is_ clever. He won’t mind.

*           *           *

“Sherlock, what makes you think I want to talk about that right now? We’re eating! Can we just...can we just talk about something normal for once?”

 **Disappointing**.

“ _Normal_? Dull,” I reply before rolling my eyes at him. “Additionally, the idea of _normal_ is a social construct. What constitutes as normal for some is bizarre to others--it’s purely cultural. Society decides what normal is. Therefore, given that logic, if we _always_ discuss topics such as these, wouldn’t this then be considered _normal_ for the culture of 221b? _Normal_ for us?” I give him the look he hates--the look that says ‘you know I’m right, admit it.’ An eyebrow raised, lips pursed, head cocked to the side. He sighs and looks up at the ceiling as if calling upon a higher power to give him... strength? Patience? Absurd, given he identifies as agnostic, if not atheistic.

“Please. We both know you’re right. I’m just asking for us to talk about something that doesn’t include things that could kill me,” he pleads. “It just isn’t pleasant conversation, is all.”

Sigh. “Well, what _pleasant_ conversation would you like to have instead, John?”

I watch as he cycles through several thought streams, attempting to find a suitable option. When he thinks, the skin between his eyebrows wrinkles slightly and his eyes take on a distant look, as if he’s focused on a point a thousand miles away. Occasionally he worries his bottom lip between his teeth, or his tongue sneaks out to wet it, hesitating there before withdrawing slowly back into his (utterly gorgeous and talented) mouth. All thoughts of _toxigenic fusarium_ evaporate as I stare at his mouth, considering...considering…

“All right, Sherlock. You win. Can’t come up with anything interesting enough for you that doesn’t involve something dangerous. Go ahead. Tell me about your new book on toxic plants,” he finally says quietly.

There’s his tongue again.

“Sherlock?”

Another aspect of this experiment does include the physical contact schedule, doesn’t it? Necessary component of ensuring accurate scores. Crucial, even. One might say the most important part of this entire endeavour, considering it’s all in an effort to prevent future episodes of torture via lack thereof. And, it’s possible that at any point John may deem my behaviour deserving of such hateful punishment, which means I ought to take advantage of the opportunities I notice.

It’s decided then. Set my food down and cross the distance between our two chairs in a single stride.

“Sherlock, what are you...don’t you want...ohhhh…,” John moans as I capture his pulse point between my lips, suckling gently. I remove his take away container from his lap and set it on his side table in a single, fluid motion before straddling his thighs and sitting gently on them. His hands, seemingly moving of their own accord, immediately reach around to cup my arse cheeks, kneading them lightly.

Dear God, that’s...oh that’s perfect. Never stop touching me, John!

Slowly kiss a line up his jaw to his ear, then across his cheek until finally reaching that glorious mouth of his. Softly place my lips over his in a sweet, closed mouth kiss. Unhurried, comfortable, lazy, even, in its pace. My fingers thread through his hair before reaching the back of his head and stroking his scalp lightly. He shudders in my arms.

I feel my chest swell knowing I have such an effect on him. I pull back and we lock eyes, faces close enough to share the oxygen between us, feel the warmth of our exhalations as they tickle each other’s cheeks. He smiles--that utterly brilliant smile--and I have to smile back. Vasodilation tints the tips of his ears pink as I gaze at him.

“I--” he begins.

“I know. Me too.”

“One of these days you’ll let me actually say it out loud,” he states confidently.

“Doubtful.”

He shakes his head. “Well, come on then.” He pats my arse and glances towards the hallway to our bedroom. As he turns back to face me, a mischievous smile overtakes his features.

Now, that’s a smile I know all too well. I slide off his lap and reach out to help him up, taking his pulse as my fingers rest on his wrist. 120 beats per minute.

Breathe. Ooh, _yes_.

_Breathe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Sherlock, breathe!! Also, I believe you. _Of course_ you'd be brilliant at surgery, honey. True, you'd probably get hyperfocused on something and potentially lose your patient, but you'd be quite good at completing the actual surgical part.
> 
> And John, oh John. You're always throwing Sherlock for a loop! Love it. ^^
> 
> Glossary:  
>  _cutis anserina_ : goosebumps  
>  norepinephrine: adrenaline  
> oxytocin: hormone associated with love and bonding  
> dopamine: pleasure hormone  
> amygdala: structure in the brain responsible for activating the fight or flight (threat) response, often active during times of anger and fear  
> vasodilation: vein widening which results in blushing due to increased blood volume near the surface of the skin
> 
> Additionally: all of the articles and books referenced here are ACTUAL scientific resources. You can find them by doing a simple google search of the titles in case you're looking for some _light_ reading!  
> 


	5. I Am Dramatic!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is taking too long. I’ve been at this for nearly a week already and have barely anything to show for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you my beta-Jawn <3<3<3 Helping me as usual with John's behavior!

Updated the rage scale to include my new observations for levels 2 and 5. If John happened to see the article I left up on his laptop, he never mentioned it. Perhaps an indication of his feelings about it? So little concern about chemical reactions to create bombs that he needn’t complain or comment on it? Unlikely. Historically, John has been hyperreactive to explosives in the flat. Did he ignore it? Possible. Inconclusive data, at any rate. Need to be more overt. This is taking too long. I’ve been at this for nearly a week already and have barely anything to show for it. Maybe--

What’s that? Oh, my phone, ringing.

**UGH.**

“What?” I spit out as I answer.

“Be _careful_ , Sherlock,” he replies, voice dripping with condescension.

“Don’t know what you’re referring to, Mycroft. How’s the diet?”

“You know exactly what I’m referring to, _brother mine_.”

“Haven’t the slightest. So, three pounds, is it? Moved a notch on your belt, yet?”

“Always _so_ childish. Dr. Watson won’t appreciate being a test subject, you know.”

Grit my teeth. He can’t help but meddle in everything I do. _Hateful._ “Is that it? Or do you have something _important_ to discuss?” I growl.

He sighs--exasperated. Serves him right. I hope he _has_ moved his belt another hole. **Prick.**

“Of course not, Sherlock--just trying to help. Relationships are your most challenging endeavour after all. Would hate to see you...compromised. I’m... _concerned_ about you, as always.”

“I’m sure your concern is purely self serving, as usual. Good morning, Mycroft,” I snap before hanging up.

Ooh, my blood feels like it’s boiling! **_Concerned!?_ **  “HAH!” I bark. How absurd! He’s...oh, he’s just--

Stalk around the flat. _Mrs. Hudson dusted_. Why would she dust?! Hate it when she dusts. Disturbs my order. Will have to have a word with her about being so intrusive. _So_ inconsiderate of my privacy! She moved my computer, too. Annoying. She cleaned the sink!?! **Frustrating.**

_‘Calm down. All she did was tidy up a bit. Don’t go deflecting all this rage at her. You’re mad at Mycroft. It’s not her fault, Sherlock.’_

My pulse is racing, body flooded with norepinephrine. Heart rate--110 bpm. I can’t stop moving, too agitated. How could I possibly calm down right now, John? **Impossible!** And _I don’t like it_ when she cleans, _you know that!_ Just another thing to infuriate me! It’s not misplaced anger--it’s totally justified. Everyone’s against me right now, even you, and you’re not even real! My own Mind Palace is against me, even!

_‘You’re being dramatic!’_

**“I** **_AM_ ** **DRAMATIC, JOHN!”**

Where’s my knife!? Ah! So satisfying, feeling it leave my fingers and make that perfect sound as it pierces the wall!

“Sherlock?” from downstairs.

Ohh, not now, Mrs. Hudson, don’t…

“Are you all right dear?”

“FINE! I’m fine,” I reply, annoyed. Hopefully my less than inviting tone keeps her downstairs--can’t deal with her right now. “Just...just need some privacy, please. I’m fine!”

“If you’ve destroyed yet another thing in that flat, Sherlock Holmes, you’ll have me to contend with! Behave yourself!”

Honestly, mind your business! I’m irritated enough as it is!

 _‘You know she is just checking on you because she cares about you. Quit being an arsehole,’_ John chides.

Sigh. Fine. _Fine,_ John. You win. As _always_.

Still need to figure out how to move things along in my experiment. Mycroft be damned. John’ll never figure out what is going on anyway.

_‘Sure about that?’_

Yeah, of course I’m sure. Why would he suspect anything? I haven’t been acting out of the ordinary. John’s clever but not always the most perceptive. It’ll be fine.

 _‘Hm.’_ He’s giving me _that_ face.

What?

No answer. I swear, my mind palace can be **most** infuriating.

Oh! I--

_Oh, yes._

I know what to do. Ooh, _yes_ , that’s **_brilliant!_ ** I need to gather supplies.

“Hello, Molly? I need your help with something…”

*      *      *

Perfect.

_Gorgeous._

This is exactly what I should have done in the first place. Much more efficient this way. The pig I acquired is serving a dual purpose--I’m testing coagulation of a large volume of blood in one location (sink) and the carcass is now being defleshed by _dermestidae_ beetles. I once had a case involving these beetles as a clever means of destroying physical evidence on a murder victim. They are _fascinating_. Had always intended on learning more about their feeding habits, as well as typical time frames needed to strip bones completely clean. Useful to determine time of death (or at least time of being covered in flesh eating beetles). Curious--perhaps the lack of blood will impact results? Although I suppose they are called _flesh_ eating beetles, not blood drinking--

“What...dear **God** Sherlock _what_ is that _smell_?”

 _Oh_ \--John’s home.

_Spectacular!_

He’s walking into the kitchen, jacket still on, glancing around at my activities. No visible signs of irritation yet. Not even clenching his fists. Really? Would have expected at least some shoulder tensing. _At_ _least_ a 3 or 4. He seems completely calm, barely even a 1. _Perplexing_.

“Blood?” he asks, pointing into the sink. “Not human, I hope? Would be a waste of donations, being used in some ridiculous experiment of yours.”

“My experiments are not ridiculous, John. In fact they’re quite useful.”

He hums in response before turning towards the large aquarium tank on the table housing the deceased pig currently being devoured by beetles. A brief, curt nod is the only reaction, his face completely blank otherwise.

What?

_Really!?_

Something is...there’s something going on. This is out of the ordinary for him. _Ooh_ , if Mycroft said _anything--_

“Well, Sherlock, you’ve outdone yourself. This deserves a _proper_ punishment,” he states, sounding...impressed? Amused?

...what? Wait--what?

What is he…

Oh, that look. I know _that look_.

That’s....ohhh….

“Out. Now. Living room,” he states firmly. “Between our chairs. On your knees. No moving once you get there.”

I--

Oh--I--

Norepinephrine. Heart: 140bpm. Blood pressure making my ears pulse, vasodilation flooding my face in a hot flush. That voice--that voice--chills, chills-- _oh, yes._

“I said **now** , Sherlock.”

“Yes, John.” Is that my voice, sounding so low and gravelly with arousal?

Before I realize it I’m on my knees facing his chair. I **know** he wants me facing _his_ chair. **Obvious.**

What is he-- ** _tea_**?

_Right now?_

I thought--

“No thinking, Sherlock. You know the rules. I don’t want to see every thought you're having plastered all over that beautiful face of yours. The only expression I should see is how much you want me right now, _understood_?” His eyebrows raise and eyes widen, a hint of amusement in his tone. A swipe of his tongue along his bottom lip--all I can do is nod in reply.

 _Frustrating._ Can’t believe he’s making _tea._ I'm on the floor on my knees and he's making bloody tea?! All I want is for him to stand in front of me, pull down his trousers and pants, and let me moan while I swallow him down, two fingers inside him stroking…

 **Oh God** , I need him _right now_.

“Tea, John?”

He’s stopped moving, shoulders square and spine straight. He turns to face me.

“John, I--”

Icy stare. The air leaves my lungs.

The kettle whistles. He returns to finishing the tea.

Oh-- _his_ tea.

No tea for me. _Of course_.

He's watching me now, barely blinking. I swear he can hear my heart pounding out its staccato rhythm all the way across the kitchen.

Breathe…

_Breathe._

“Take off your shirt, Sherlock,” John says quietly, as if commenting on the weather.

Such control, _always._ **_Infuriating_** _._

The cool air of the flat whispers over my bare chest as I undo the buttons of my shirt slowly, maintaining direct eye contact with John the entire time. If he's going to order a striptease, I will _not_ disappoint. I lick my lips slowly, taking a moment to suck my bottom lip in and bite it. I spread my shirt open, taking a moment to run my hands up and down my torso, gasping at the sensation. I glance down while I do so, feeling my cheeks flush as I stare at myself. I move to unbutton my cuffs, flexing my fingers for him. (He knows full well what those fingers can do to him!)

After slipping it off my shoulders, I fold my shirt neatly and place it on the floor next to my knees--my somewhat achy knees--and smile devilishly at John, enticing him. I straighten my back, and lengthen my neck, exposing it fully for him. _Two_ can play this game, John Watson.

He's walking over-- _oh yes_ \--I’ve won! He's going to--

“Touch yourself Sherlock. Touch yourself for me,” he purrs in my ear, hot breath washing over my pulse point. I shiver involuntarily and reach down--

“No. Not there. Your nipples. **Only**.” He sits in his chair and sets his saucer down on the table, then blows gently across the top of his tea, sending the scents of tannin and a medley of spices wafting towards me.

 _Sigh_. “John, come on, I... _please_ , John--you’ve made your point, can I--”

Two blue/brown eyes over the rim of teacup. I watch his Adam’s Apple bob as he swallows. Eyebrows raised, hint of a mischievous smirk tugging at the corners of his (perfect) lips.

He _does_ mean to punish me.

A curt nod--a command. _‘Go on then…touch yourself,’_ he says without speaking.

Why, don’t mind if I do, John…

The first zing of pleasure-- _ohhh yes_ \--almost painful--brilliant, oh _it's brilliant!_

Twisting, pinching, rolling my hypersensitive nipples into small hard peaks... **God** this feels **so--**

“Mmmm…,” I moan, throwing my head back and allowing my eyes to slide shut. “Ohhhh, **_John_** …,” I gasp, plucking at one with my fingernails.

It's-- _oh it's just_...just not _quite_ enough...if I could just--just a _little_ bit of friction--ohhh **_GOD_** , I _want...NEED… “_ **_Jooooohnnnnnn_** …”

Close, so close. His legs are so close, I could just--maybe he'll let me--

“No.”

“Ahh, _John!_ **Please**! I--”

“ **No.** You're not going to rub yourself on me like some _filthy dog_. You'll get what I give you and _nothing more_.” The corner of his mouth quirks as he sets down his teacup, then leans forward in his chair, towering over me slightly. He must love this height advantage--such a shift from our usual perspectives. He seems...thoughtful (?) as he watches me squirm below him. Slowly, he brings a hand up to set a finger against his lips, his other hand resting on his knee, still considering me with earnest. Can't help but stare as his fingertips trace tiny circles on his kneecap, caressing his skin gently through his jeans.

I descend into the cloud of dopamine, vision blurring at the edges and body feeling warm and relaxed. I can hear my breath as if I'm on the other side of the room, gasping quietly through my teeth as I watch those fingers circling...circling…

My own hands never stop their ministrations, stimulating my nipples until they start to feel sore from the attention. Every tug shoots lightning through my body, settling itself deep in my belly, curling around in a pool of arousal.

 _Oh_ how I want him to touch me with those perfect, _nimble_ fingers...circling...circling…

“What a good boy, Sherlock. I love watching your face when all you're thinking about is much _you need me to touch you_ ,” John purrs, eyes locking with mine.

He's-- _oh his fingers!_ Oh **_yes_** , feather light touches, running along my jawline, landing on my chin. His index finger, resting there, just below my bottom lip--my face is on fire, ears hot with vasodilation, tingling...

He presses down slightly, enough to pull my mouth open before sliding the tip of his finger inside and stroking my tongue. I moan around it, eyes closing while I suck him lightly, tasting his skin--a mix of salty and sweet and musk, so perfectly _John._

He removes his finger from my mouth with wet _pop_ and holds my face in his hands, willing me to look at him. “Take off your trousers, Sherlock Holmes. Pants stay on,” he commands, a warning about the dangers of defiance in his voice. I want to protest, I want to beg, I want to... _I want_ …

“Pants stay _on_ ,” he repeats sternly.

“And what about you? Going to get undressed with me, John? Or are you just going to continue placing me on display for you?” I ask pointedly, _indignantly_ , while I stand to unzip my trousers.

His eyebrows shoot towards his hairline at my challenge, shocked that I would be so bold. Usually I keep quiet, I just do as he says, but... _not tonight_. He says he wishes to punish me… _and I agree_.

**_Punish me, John Watson._ **

He blinks, jaw working. He purses his lips, narrowing his eyes as he stares me down. He blinks again, then cocks his head to the side, considering. I keep my back straight, shoulders square, and let my trousers _and_ pants drop to the floor. Understanding crosses his features as he allows his gaze to roam over my body, hungrily. He bites his bottom lip, sucking it in and running his tongue along it inside his mouth. Another slow, _deliberate_ blink. His pupils are so dilated that his eyes look black, all the colour gone.

_Punish me, John Watson._

_You know you want to._

_Punish me._

_Tell me what a naughty boy I am. Take control. Make me beg. Make me_ **_plead._ **

“Ohhh, Sherlock,” he finally says quietly before sighing. “You are going to pay for that.”

“Oh, I intend to,” I growl before reaching down to trail my fingers through the coarse hair along the insides of my thighs, keeping his gaze the entire time. His breath catches while he watches me, tongue sneaking out between his lips briefly.

Magnetism between us--drawing us together-- _he wants me_ _as much as I want him_. He’s struggling within himself--he wants to assert dominance, take back control, _pull rank_ \--yet my challenge is _so_ _unexpected_ , so _dirty_ , so **_brilliant_** …

He regains his composure, then pauses to pick up his teacup and drain it, smiling widely at me. A chuckle escapes his lips as he glances away from me, shoulders shaking gently. His voice is low, almost menacing in tone. “You have no idea what you’ve just gotten yourself into,” he finally replies, dark humour evident as he brings his eyes back to meet mine. He rises, standing so close I can feel his body heat, yet refusing to touch me. The proximity is dizzying. A shrug of his shoulders and his jacket slides down his arms and he catches it deftly, swiveling to place it on the arm of his chair. Turning back towards me, he brings his arms between us, hands at chest level. For a brief moment, it feels as though he might touch me...oh, _please_ , John, **_touch me_** …

A slight cock of the head, a sly smile, and his index finger and thumb close over the button of his shirt cuff, slowly working it out of its hole.

I can’t help but huff in exasperation. He drives me _insane_ , and he’s fully aware of it.

 _“Arsehole_ ,” I whisper in irritation while I watch him. His eyes harden as he barks out a laugh at the comment, amused?

Suddenly, his presence seems to fill the room and I find I have trouble breathing. He leans closer to me, a hand reaching up to grab the back of my neck and pull me down to him.

No--not amused at all.

**Oh.**

_He does not appreciate my statement._

“Bedroom, **now**. Get on the bed on your back. Hands above your head, holding the headboard. Legs spread. Stay still until I tell you otherwise,” John commands, countenance shifting into completely Captain mode. “And, _silence_. You will speak when I give you permission. That cheeky mouth of yours has gotten you into more than enough trouble this evening. It will open when I decide. _Understood, Holmes_?”

 _Ooh, this is going to be_ **_so much fun._ ** My heart rate must be nearing 160bpm, my body is buzzing with norepinephrine and dopamine. My knees feel unsteady suddenly, my fingers are tingling as my circulation shifts and my blood pressure skyrockets. Nearly all of my awareness is focused on my groin--cock ramrod straight and leaking, balls heavy and full with arousal.

“Answer me, Holmes.”

I nod and barely smile before breathlessly moaning, “Yes sir.”

His eyes flick toward the bedroom, accompanied by a curt nod.

**_Yes, sir._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, we get to learn all about Sherlock's punishment in the next chapter. :)


	6. Rude! So Rude!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did I really call him an arsehole out loud?  
> >>Mind Palace  
> >>Sensory Data  
> >>Auditory  
> >>Play: 15 minutes ago  
> Shit, I did.  
> He’s right--I’m going to pay for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this taking as long as it has! I hope I didn't keep you all in too much suspense. Dom John just had too much in store for Sherlock, so it took a bit more time than usual. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> <3<3 Beta-Jawn of course for helping me figure this whole thing out and keeping Dom John just as infuriating as he ought to be in this situation.

It’s been nine minutes twenty seven seconds. What is he doing? This is... _infuriating_. I can’t even hear him moving around in the flat. He couldn’t have forgotten about me...this must be the beginning of my _punishment_. Before he ordered me in here he seemed particularly...stern. Did I really call him an arsehole _out loud?_

>>Mind Palace

     >>Sensory Data

          >>Auditory

          >>Play: 15 minutes ago

 _Shit_ , I did.

He’s right--I’m going to pay for this.

Oh **_GOD_ ** this is taking too long. I should call out to him. Wait, no, he told me not to move or speak. But…

If I disobey…

It might force his hand. He’ll feel inclined to react. Is he really waiting for me to act out? No, he wouldn’t...would he?

He might.

Only one way to find out.

 _Once more into the breach_ , as they say.

“John, you can’t possibly leave me in here all night!” I bellow as loudly as I possibly can.

“Hm. Sure about that?” I hear from the hallway before John enters the room.

Huff in exasperation. “Been waiting in the hall, have you?” I ask sarcastically.

A single raised eyebrow and a smirk is my only response. I do my best to glare at him in frustration despite being laid out on display like a wanton voyeur expecting payment.

 _Ah, yes_. He’s removing his belt, slowly pulling it through the loops in his jeans with a tiny, knowing smile on his face. I can see his tongue moving inside his (so very tempting) mouth, running along his teeth. Tired of laying down, I prop myself up on my elbows, looking up at him through my eyelashes as he stands over me. He takes a deep breath through his nose, and--

!!!

What?! Oh--I--what!?

I’m knocked back down and he’s firmly grabbing both of my hands, stretching my arms tightly above my head. The soft, worn leather of his belt slides quickly over my skin before he binds my wrists to our headboard.

Suddenly, his face is a few centimetres away from mine, his blue/brown eyes peering at me intently and warm breath washing over my face. He smells like tea, musk, British Sterling cologne, and _John_. He raises his eyebrows--a question. He glances towards my bound arms, then back down at my face. He seems...hesitant for a moment, unsure. He needs my answer.

I nod. _Of course_ this is all right, John. Unexpected, but definitely _all right._

It’s brilliantly sexy, as a matter of fact.

A pleased smile envelopes his lips as he leans away from me, crossing his arms and staring at my taut form. I watch as he gets lost in contemplation, eyes distant, before he grins widely and sits near the foot of the bed to face me. Deliberately out of reach, _of course_.

“Oh, Sherlock. The things I could...and _will_...do to you in this position. You’re nearly helpless, restrained like this.” His gaze sweeps over me hungrily--my breath catches, heart races. My previously flagging erection responds in kind, swelling as it rests against my lower abdomen, leaving smears of arousal in my dark and curly pubic hair.

Watching him stare at me...oh _God_ , it’s... **_wow…_ **

“I think, first though, I’m going to focus on enjoying myself while I talk to you.”

Oh-- _oh_ \--he’s unzipping his jeans, pulling them open--I can just make out the line of his cock in his boxers, tenting them out towards me--

Lick my lips--suddenly my mouth is bone dry--I’m... _ohhhhh_ , _I’m panting_ at the sight of him sliding a hand under his waistband.

“Mmmm **_oh God John_** ,” I moan, squirming around on the bed while I watch him stroke slowly. “Ah, John, let me watch, _please!”_ I keen. “Pull down your--”

“Such a dirty boy, Sherlock, you’re gagging for it.”

“John... _please_ ….”

“Enough, Sherlock,” he snaps, jaw set and eyes narrowed sternly. (Oh, **bloody hell,** his hand is still... _still...oh_ _God)_ “I believe your order was to be quiet unless told otherwise--am I right?”

Clench my teeth (fight the urge to moan) and nod swiftly.

“Good. Hm. Seems you are struggling with insubordination today. Looks like you need to-- _ahhh_ \--be reminded of who’s in charge, here…,” he gasps out, still touching himself in frankly gorgeous ways. “Now. Since you can’t keep your mouth shut...what should I put in it, hmm?”

A million filthy and perfect options race through my mind simultaneously, leaving me breathlessly groaning.

“Seems you’ve got some ideas... _mmm, Sherrrrrlock_ ,” he growls erotically. There’s a damp spot forming on his boxers now-- _ooh yes!_

My body--it’s humming, on fire, raw, glorious! How is he…he’s not even touching me! I yank against the belt--another sensory input--smooth strong firm tight _perfect_! My arms feel tense, shoulders cinched together almost unnaturally, yet...oh yet...I love it, it’s brilliant, yes oh **_John!_ **

He’s thrown his head back while he pleasures himself, still refusing to reveal himself to me.

(Rude! _So rude!_ )

I shift my focus to the rest of him, determined to take in every moment of this. His cheeks, covered in a fine stubble of 5 o’clock shadow, flushing pink as his breath speeds. My eyes trail down his neck, watching it tense in time with his strokes. Following the line down his shoulder, along his arm--the cords of muscle are prominent even through his shirt, biceps flexing as his hand moves up and down in his pants. Every inch of him exudes strength, control, _dominance._

“Maybe I will climb over you, sit on your chest, and shove my cock down your throat, hm?” he asks calmly.

**_Oh my God._ **

My hips buck off the bed involuntarily, feet planting flat on the mattress. I’m writhing, whimpering, fighting against my restraint--

 **_Fuck, John, I need you RIGHT BLOODY NOW_** _!_ I scream internally. My eyesight is hazy with lust, lips parted as I nearly hyperventilate in need. He’s taking me apart, piece by piece, wrecking me!

_And he’s still not even touching me._

I hate him and his power over me! (Love him, love it, _LOVE HIM_ )

I can’t--oh, I can’t--

What’s that--what? That vibrating, buzzing noise? It’s... _what_?

“Hey, Greg,” John says cordially.

Greg? What!? _Greg who_?

“Oh, I see. Well, Sherlock’s...he’s a bit busy, you see. Yeah, sure, an experiment. No, no, he’s okay...just busy.”

He answered the bloody phone!? **_And_ ** _he pulled his hand_ **_out of his pants!_ **

**_DAMN_** **!**

Ugh, _damn him!_

Ohohohohohoh what what oh my god what!?!

I...I...I…

“Hang on Greg. Sherlock, can you keep it down? I’m on the phone…,” he scolds while staring me in the eye, licking his lips and grinning mischievously.

Ohohohoh he’s, oh, he’s--his fingers, ohhhhhhh, they’re-- ** _OH_** \--trailing up my inner thigh, shooting electricity through me! I’m thrusting up, seeking additional contact and being torturously denied, all while John discusses details about a case _on the phone with some stranger named Greg!?_

_Hateful!_

**_Insidious!_ **

Ohhhh theretherethere _there_ ** _there_** oh please John keep pressing _there!_ **Right there** , oh, yes, my perineum, ohhhhhhh yes don’t stop rubbing!

“Yeah, sure, when Sherlock is less... _tied up_...I’ll have him call you back. Bye.”

What? No! NO! He’s stopped touching me completely!? “ **Dammit John!** Also, _tied up_? Really!? So bloody **obvious**!” I hear myself shouting, voice hoarse and cracking.

John sighs. “And here I was going to reward you for being mostly quiet while I was on the phone…” He’s shaking his head, disappointed. “You just can’t help yourself, can you Sherlock?”

God I just...just **need** him to touch me again! My cock is aching, harder than I think it’s ever been, continuously letting out a stream of precum, which is pooling on my stomach.

John Watson is _evil_.

_Devil incarnate._

**_God I love him for it._ **

“Hm, just look at you,” he comments, eyes wandering up and down my nude and utterly debauched body. “I bet one touch and you'd be yelling my name, yeah?”

Force myself to nod weakly, breath heavy in my lungs and mind swirling in dopamine, thoughts disjointed.

Suddenly his breath--hot on my ear, sending tingles up my scalp and down my spine, adding to the throbbing between my legs-- _oh, oh my…_

A whisper. “Open your mouth, Sherlock.”

His tongue--tracing the shell of my ear--oh _God_ , oh this is... _it’s_ …

“You're the dev-”

“Shhhhh.”

His fingers are _in my mouth._

**_In my mouth._ **

** _Fuck_ ** **_._ **

**_In my mouth!!!_ **

He's... Oh, he's moving them slowly in and out, sliding them along my tongue, mapping my teeth, gliding across the inside of my cheeks--

Can't help but suck on them.

Hungry, _touched starved_.

**_OH GOD JOHN!_ **

Another hot exhalation along my neck, bathing me in damp (perfect) John tannins/sweat/musk/cologne/delight yes oh _yes! John,_ invading my very cells, they're fit to burst, so full of-- _so full of_ \--

“You wish this was my cock, yeah?”

Fingers thrusting now--

“Mmmmm,” I'm moaning, involuntarily, eyes slamming shut as I lose myself-- _so_ many--it’s too-- _oh yes_ \--oh _God_ I--I can't! **I can't anymore**!

 **Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat**?!?!

!!!

“Slow down, Sherlock,” I barely hear as I start surfacing. “Not yet,” he adds, fingers--ah his hand is--oh **_GOD HE. IS. SO. EVIL._ **

“Not yet,“ he repeats, squeezing the base of my prick firmly.

Bastard.

_Utter bastard._

Open my eyes to find him staring at me, lips pulled up in slight smirk. “John…,” I gasp. “Please...I--I can't take much more of this--” I plead imploringly.

The left half of his mouth quirks into a half grin. He releases his grip on me, convinced that he's successfully stopped my orgasm. He trails his nails torturously up my abdomen, my ribs, brushing my right nipple (insane raw glorious) and finally resting his fingertips on my pulse point, undoubtedly loving how my heart is racing, blood flying through me, breath catching, hitching, panting!

He moves away from the bed and begins unbuttoning his shirt. I'm staring, _obviously._ He drops it to the floor and pushes his jeans down, stepping out of them. His erection is prominent, bobbing under his cotton shorts. He holds my gaze, pupils blown wide and cheeks flushed. He must be just as aroused as I am--his breath is quick and shallow.

His undershirt makes it to the floor and he reaches down to squeeze himself briefly before hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts, licking his lips as he pauses, knowing--watching me as I watch him--and then his pants are _gone_.

A low, primal growl erupts from somewhere deep in my chest at the sight of him.

 _He looks_ **_stunning_**.

Muscled, tan, his chest covered in a modest amount of light brown hair which trails down the middle of his stomach before settling around his gorgeously hard and dusky rose-purple cock, which is glistening at the tip-- _beautiful_.

He's right.

He's _always_ right.

Gagging--I’m gagging for it.

For him.

 _Oh yes,_ **_for John_** _._

He knows it.

(Of course he does.)

He knows it and **_he LOVES it._ **

John moves to the end of the bed, standing between my feet. He takes his index finger and runs it slowly, lightly, from my heel to the tip of my big toe on first my right foot, then my left, shooting shivers up each of my legs. My nerves feel like exposed wires, sparking, humming, _vibrating_ along every millimetre of my body.

I just…

_Need._

**I NEED.**

**_NOW._ **

“John, please!”

He (rudely) clucks his tongue at me. “Patience, Sherlock...always so eager.”

Glare at him. “You love it.”

He huffs out a laugh, amused. Admitting I’m right without saying so. (Adorable.)

Suddenly his knees are between mine and he’s perched over my pelvis, staring down at me while his right hand hovers over the top of my right thigh, fingers twitching. His eyes... _oh his eyes._ He looks as though he’s fit to devour me.

Breathe, gasp, _breathe_.

Need to remember…

To…

Breathe…

“Close your eyes, Sherlock,” he purrs in my ear before kissing my earlobe. This is... _overwhelming_ and _captivating. Fantastic_. _Terrifying_. **_Exhilarating_**.

John is vibrant and true and _100% mine_.

**_God, I could just die._ **

Silence, except for his breath and the occasional creak as he shifts his weight on the mattress. Focus--where is he? What is he doing…? He’s...his hands are...they’re lifting my hips, sliding a pillow under them. Can only imagine what he looks like, between my knees like this--strong, muscular arms holding my lithe frame easily, adjusting me to _his_ specifications. _Marvelous!_

Want to...want to _see_...

No-- _focus!_ What’s he…oh, he’s bending my legs up, bringing my thighs up towards my stomach, then resting the backs of my knees on his...shoulders? Yes, shoulders.

**Wait.**

_Shoulders?_

He’s got his hands--hot, firm, steady hands--placed gently on my arse cheeks, fingertips pressing lightly into them, pulling them apart slowly…

Is he…

_Oh, he is._

Right…?

**_OH!_ **

**_Ohmygodwhatohmyohyessssss!_ **

_Hishishishis--_

His tongue, it’s it’s _it’s_ \--

_Lickingwethotslidingtasting_

I’m I’m I’m **I’m!!!**

“Sherlock, be still,” John gasps, his breath warm and damp against me, complicating the sensations, _utterly transcendent!_

His-- _ohhh his tongue_ returns, prodding lapping circling-- _it’s it’s it’s indescribable!_

Now his--ohoh _OH GOD!!_ **_Finger!_**

“Slow down. You’re not going to come until I’m inside you. I want to feel you squeeze tightly around me while you coat us both, hmm?” He’s so calm... and, and, and...collected?! While he’s doing such ( _wow)_ sinfully dirty and magnificent things to me...god it’s hateful/wonderful/loathsome!

Fuckfuck _fuck_ I--

“I’ll stop what I’m doing if you can’t control yourself,” he commands firmly, grounding me.

Breathe.

Breathe!

_Breathe, dammit!_

“‘Mokay,” I mumble, keeping my eyes pressed shut as I try to calm everything in me down.

The elements--should name the…

Hydrogen Helium Lithium Beryllium  _Finger--_

No--wait--not--it’s...Boron…

“Carbon...Nitrogen…”

Tongue, _oh his--_

Oxygen… **(Need!!)**

“Did you just say...nitrogen?”

 **_Exasperating!!_ ** My own _mouth_ is betraying me!

I feel the huff of a chuckle against me, feel his shoulders shake briefly as he attempts to keep his amusement hidden. _Mortifying_.

Fingers! Oh _yessss fingers!_ Two now! “Oxygen…,” he murmurs.

Wait--did he--

Another twist of his... _mind-blowing fingers_ … “Fluorine,” from between my legs.

Ohoh _oh! Wow there, he’s!!_

“Neon, right?” he adds, brushing my prostate (!!!) again.

_Neon._

**_Fuck._ **

**_NEON!_** _Oh GOD yes_ **_neon_** _John!_

Fingers ( _still neon_ ) moving stretching sliding burning _extraordinary_!

“Mmm, Sherlock...I’m proud. Such control,” John coos, face close to me in intense and overpowering ways. Can feel his heat, his breath, his stubble covered cheek as he gently brushes it against my inner thigh. “Learned your lesson?”

Lesson?

What...oh...um? Why am I... _I can’t_...remember…

Oh! The...no, that’s...not…

Those... _oh those fingers_ , still working, prepping, loosening...still **_neon_** _…_

I pull against the belt restraining my wrists, writhe, push down on his fingers, his _fingers_ , _his--_

“Ohhhh, John,” I’m moaning involuntarily. “ _Please_ , just... _please._..oh...I... ** _oh John_**... _neon…_ ”

He hums, still between my legs. It’s--he’s--pleased? My brain is barely...barely…I can’t--

Another quick swipe of his tongue along my cleft, pausing to...to... _to...to prod, dip, taste…_ then continuing up, wriggling against myyyyyy peri...peri…

“ _John!!!_ ”

“Oh, I know. You taste great, you know. S’pose you have been a good boy, hm? Enough punishment for tonight?” he asks.

“We both...know...that this…,” (gasp, pant, _breathe_ ) “is not...not...not...up to me, John…”

“Hm.”

“ _Please, just...just…”_

He’s still and silent. Waiting.

“ _John..._ I apologize. For all of it. I...I...I...just...just... _please!_ ”

Can’t take it anymore. Have to look...slowly open my eyes. John is...staring, mouth slightly agape. He’s… _consumed._ Every part of him screams arousal--pupils dilated, cheeks flushed, lips reddened and swollen, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows abruptly, breath hitching in his throat, pulse point throbbing, chest rising and falling as he gasps, nipples dark and peaking, skin covered in a thin slick of sweat...and his... _ohhhhh yes his_ **_cock_** _._ Evident now as he starts to climb over me, heavy and thick and purple/rose, head glistening with pre-ejaculate, balls taut and tight, pulled close to his body...waiting… _wanting_ …

“You’re peeking,” he says quietly, meeting my gaze.

“Course I am. When have you ever known me to follow the, ah…”  I can feel him nudging me open, poised, _ready_. “The ah...the...rules--oh _God!”_

Very slow, _so_ slow, _too_ slow?! **Too slow!** Movemove _movemovemove_ _John_ **_mooooooove!!_**

“John, I--I--I can...can you...oh yes this is... _Johnnnnn please dear God please!_ **_Just--_** ”

He’s nearly...nearly...ohohoh _oh_ ** _oh!!_** Electricity--drowning--everything firing filling me covering me can’t can’t can’t _oh my God_ my body feels, _it_ ** _all_** _feels_ **_exquisite_** _!_ Sliding, every nerve alight, every cell humming, vibrating, **_exploding exploding exploding_** \--

“You, oh _you_ …,” John growls into my chest before licking a stripe along the top of my nipple ( _fire/amazing/yes!)_. “You are... _oh, so_ ….mmm,” he adds, nipping at my shoulder. A guttural, perfect sound is erupting from him, rumbling deep in his chest--animalistic, staggering, _brilliant_ in every way…

His hand is wrapped around me now, stroking in time with his thrusts, palming the head of my--I can’t--it’s too--”Oh John, I--” _breathe breathe breathe stay with him don’t drown don’t don’t don’t--_

Neon, sodium, magnesium… **(John)**

“Aluminum…” **_(sliding)_ **

Silicon… **_(GOD!)_ **

“Elements again?” John asks, chuckling to himself, still gloriously moving inside me, around me, on me, enveloping me.

“It’s...it’s a...mmmm yes, John...helps...with...ungh…”

More breathy laughs, more...more...oh _yes_ more…

Harder...faster...deeper...he’s...oh he’s starting to...he’s giving in…

Phosphorus, sulfur… _feel it don’t drown just feel feel feel it’s it’s it’s--_

“Jah--Jah-- Oh, I--John, I--”

“Mm, Sherlock, fuck, you’re--you--”

Bodies sliding, everything roaring, muscles tight, thighs trembling, knees locked, _slapping slapping slapping slapping skin against skin against skin against skin!_ **_Magnificent_ ** too much too--too--(chlorine or argon next? Can’t…) It’s--oh yes, it’s--

“John, I’m…”

“Yes, do it, go, Sherlock, let go!” John grips my thighs harder, moves barely faster, just enough faster, just enough, **_just enough!_ ** Suddenly--I’m--oh yes, I’m--

Neurons exploding spastically, body spasming, shuddering, twitching, _burning burning burning_ delightful perfection amazing brilliant John! Oh yes, John so-- **_so! SO!!_ **

**_“_** John oh **_JOHN!!!_ ** ” Floating/ecstasy/body warm/floating above myself/everything everything so blissful, so...so... _oh John_...

John gives me a few more erratic movements and a final deep thrust, fully seating him inside me before he tenses, jaw going slack and eyes sliding shut, a moan ripping from him involuntarily. I can feel his orgasm inside me, feel myself fill with his slick, glorious come--the thought of it is nearly enough to send me over the edge again.

I watch him surface slowly, eyes hazy and cheeks pink, breath slowly regulating. He glances up at me through his blonde eyelashes, a soft smile on his lips. Turning his face to the right, he kisses my left knee gently, resting his mouth against my skin. I feel his exhalations through his nose, bathing me in warmth. He blinks, eyelids moving sedately.

Yawn. Sigh. Watch him come back to reality.

**Stunning.**

My arms feel suddenly heavy. “Going to let me out of your belt, then?”

A short laugh against my thigh, his body shaking. “S’pose I ought to. You’re taking up the middle of the bed. Not that it’s any different from every other night…”

I pout at him. “Don’t be rude, John.”

“Not rude, just honest.” Another kiss to my knee. “Come on then. Let’s get you free.”

 


	7. What is Natural?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tissue culture hood. ✓  
> Biohazard suit. ✓  
> Biohazard plastic for windows and doors. ✓  
> Non-replicating Hepatits B virus. ✓  
> One hidden nicotine patch. ✓  
> Let’s begin, shall we?  
> “Stop making that face at me, Mycroft.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to my dear Beta-Jawn!
> 
> Also, thank you to all you lovely fans and readers. You all give me such encouragement and support, and it keeps me going! Please continue to leave comments of all sorts--I take feedback very seriously. You are all fantastic and I am so grateful for you all. <3

Unclear. Inconclusive. _Again._ Annoying. Why is John so _unpredictable_ ? He isn’t responding at all like I expected. Perhaps I need to redesign my scale of measurement to more accurately reflect his reactions. Confusing. Incongruent. He is _incongruent_. Extreme (10) means no sex. Yet the last _in vivo_ exercise yielded some of the _best sex we’ve ever had._ Well…

Not _some_ of.

 _The._ **It was** ** _the_** **best sex we’ve ever had.**

The way he bound me, controlled me, teased me until I was begging for it…

 _Focus._ **_Stop it! BUSY._ **

He seemed...calm. Not even a 1 on the rage scale. Yet he claimed he was punishing me for taking over the kitchen _again_ with experiments. Was he even annoyed? Or did he--

This is--

I hate it. I don’t get confused.

Why am I-- _something’s wrong with me._

Clearly. Must be. Maybe I--

_‘Not everyone can be contained within expected parameters, you know…’_

Have you something useful to add, Mycroft? Or just surfacing to taunt me and remind me that _you’re the smart one?_

 _‘You chose John for a reason,’_ he replies coolly.

Of course I did. Don’t be **obvious**.

_‘And the reason being…?’_

Stop patronizing me.

_‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Merely assisting, brother mine.’_

Tea. Time for tea.

_‘Ignoring me, then?’_

**What do you want, Mycroft?**

_‘Why did you choose John Watson?’_

He tolerates me.

_‘No…I tolerate you.’_

Sigh. You are _quarrelsome_. He raises his eyebrows, purses his lips. **Fine.** I chose him because he’s different from everyone. Different and clever and relevant and perfectly suited to dealing with my ridiculous behaviour. There. Happy?

_‘You chose him because you know he will love you no matter what you do.’_

He _does_ love me no matter what I do. You’re being obvious again. Contribute or go away.

 _‘You’re missing something. Something important._ ’

I don’t miss anything, Mycroft.

(Right?)

Right. You’re distracting me. I need to think. Go away. Done with you.

What was it about the initial experiment that upset him the most?

Flame? No. Smell? No.

It was…oh.

OH!

 **_Human skin_**. The fact that it was human skin and I didn’t know if it was diseased (it wasn’t, obviously) seemed to be the tipping point.

 _Disease_. That’s it. I need to test diseases. Of course!

I’ll need some materials and a couple samples. Easy enough to obtain.

_‘You’re sure this is a good idea?’_

Quiet you.

I’ll get some useful results by the time this is over. A list, I’ll make a…

*           *           *

Tissue culture hood. ✓

Biohazard suit.  ✓

Biohazard plastic for windows and doors.  ✓

Non-replicating Hepatits B virus.  ✓

One hidden nicotine patch. ✓

Let’s begin, shall we?

“Stop making that face at me, Mycroft.”

*           *          *

Footfalls on the stairs.

**_John._ **

Slow down, heart. Focus.

Breathe.

I know he’s going to be at least a 5 for this. Hoping we will make it to an 8, though. Need to see an 8 or 9 in action. Prefer an 8--a 9 means he leaves and that’s...dangerous. Could escalate to a 10 without warning, especially if he goes out to drink with Lestrade.

 _Breathe_.

Calm down.

Look...busy. Yes, busy. Busy doing my experiment on contagion. Act...natural? **_What is natural?_ **

_‘Certainly not doing experiments on your lover,’_ Mind Palace John replies.

Surely it is. All relationships are just forms of experimentation, John; just less rigorous and planned. Less objective. Less scientific. It's certainly not my fault I have a methodical, organized brain and require data through observation and repetition to produce reliable results upon which I form the basis of my conclusions. If others choose to be more haphazard, they will deal with the consequences of such negligence.

_'Is that so?'_

Yes. Of course it is.

_'Hm.'_

“What, John?”

From outside the plastic, “What?” A pause. “Wait...what? Sherlock, are you…” A tap on the plastic wall. “...are you in there?”

Look up from the tissue culture hood. The shield for my suit coupled with the plastic wall I’ve tacked up around the openings to the kitchen distort his form, unfortunately, obscuring his expressions and posture. Complicating. Hadn’t considered that. Why didn’t I think about that ahead of time? The entire point of _all_ of this is to gauge his reactions and catalog them and yet I set up an entire situation that completely prevents me from achieving this goal!? I am such an **_idiot!_ **

“Sherlock, Lestrade’s been trying to reach you,” he states loudly, sounding annoyed.

“Has he?” Hadn’t noticed. Bit challenging to check my mobile like this, _obviously_.

John’s standing very still, looking through the plastic at me. Assessing. Why is he so quiet? Silence in the midst of an obvious stressor typically indicates a higher number--perhaps all the way up to a 9? Or...a 10, potentially. (Hopefully not, although it wouldn’t be the first time I misjudged John Watson.)

“We going or not?” he asks. “It’s worth your time, an 8 by your  _r_ _idiculous_ standards, and we haven’t had a case on in nearly 3 weeks. Figured you’d be ripe for one by now, if you’re weren’t so…busy.”

Wait. “Busy? What do you mean? _I’m not busy_. What do you mean **busy**?” Why did he say that? I’m not...he can’t…

“Yeah, you know...busy with whatever the hell it is you’re doing in there.”

There’s no way he...no. Natural. Supposed to be acting natural. “Passing the time, John. Passing the time. Can’t smoke anymore, you know,” I respond, a hint of superficial venom in my voice. I hear him chuckle. “Is it _really_ an 8? Or are you just saying that so I’ll stop?”

An exasperated sigh, barely muffled by the plastic. “It’s really an 8, at least. Although honestly I’d do anything to get you to stop doing whatever it is you’re doing in there. It looks...concerning. Mind telling me…?”

“Does it matter?”

I watch as he looks up at the ceiling, a gesture he’s prone to when I’m proving exceptionally irksome. He scrubs at his face with his hands. I’m pushing him. Not at a 10, yet, then, but heading towards one. Interesting. A potentially dangerous experiment coupled with frustrating conversation about said experiment seems to be producing the desired effect.

John looks towards me again, face still masked by the barriers between us. “Would you come out of there, please, and check your phone? I’m telling you, it’s an 8.” He pleads, sounding a bit defeated.

Oh. _He needs a case._

Stupid, _stupid!_ I’ve been so caught up in my experiment that I forgot how important adrenaline is to John’s happiness. He’s right. And...he may get suspicious if I don’t agree to at least _check_ this one out.

It better be an 8.

*           *           *

Fourteen days. It’s been fourteen exhilarating and exhausting days. A string of bizarre deaths throughout London, each accompanied by a list of numbers that inevitably coincided with the lottery both locally and internationally. Turned out to be a small group of white collar businessmen involved in rigging the lottery who had been threatened with exposure by someone in their circle, so they began killing themselves off in a vicious game of treachery and betrayal. They were sloppy, in the end; desperate. I suppose if I had let them go long enough they would have eliminated themselves entirely, but where’s the fun in that?

 _Fourteen days_ , and we are finally, _thankfully,_ headed home. John is sitting near me in the back of the cab, tapping his fingers absently on his knee. I feel his thigh flex occasionally through the seat as he shifts. To a casual observer, he would seem calm, relaxed. He’s looking out the window, streetlights flashing across his face, illuminating his cheekbones and the tip of his nose. His breath is even. Steady. His jaw moves as his teeth clench, then unclench. A flash of pink as his tongue sneaks out before drawing his bottom lip into his mouth, trapping it between his front teeth and releasing it slowly. His shoulders are canted forward slightly, giving the illusion of resting against the cushion yet refusing to touching it. Tap, tap, tap--his fingers continue their beat. Tap, tap, tap. Again, to a casual observer, he would seem calm.

I am not a casual observer.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

I can nearly feel the adrenaline humming through his body, vibrating his core. His heart's still racing, skipping, jumping in his chest. His skin is probably hot, blood pounding through his veins and echoing in his ears. Although his breath is even, I can tell it’s shallow, verging on the edge of gasping. If I could see his eyes, his pupils would be dilated far beyond the needs of our darkened cab. Wide, black, full.

Tap, tap, tap.

His fingers give him away. They twitch before they reach his knee, then linger as he savors the pressure on his skin through his jeans. The tendons in his hand flex prominently with every upbeat, his knuckle rolling smoothly with the motion. His muscles tense slightly as he presses against his knee, grounding him to his own touch.

Tap, tap, tap.

_Mesmerizing._

As if he can feel my gaze on him, he turns to glance at me, eyebrows raised and lips parted. A question. _You okay?_ he asks without speaking. I feel my cheeks tingle with vasodilation as I nod, barely moving my head. The corners of his lips curl nearly imperceptibly. He knows why I stare. He knows what I’m watching. He knows. _He knows._

This cab needs to go faster.

His eyes drift from my face, slowly moving down my body, lingering... _lingering..._ everywhere and nowhere. My lips, my neck, my collarbones, my shoulders...without touching me he makes his way, caressing me with his gentle looking. His fingers continue his tap, tap, tapping; measured, even, continuous and seemingly calm.

_He is not calm._

**_Neither am I._ **

My heart quickens, fluttering beneath my spasming lungs. The space between us is charged, electric, and too big. Much, much too big. I need to--

Cab. We are in the cab, _still._

I can wait. I will wait. (I can’t wait. I hate waiting)

I can.

Tap, tap, tap.

I.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Here y’are, Baker street, lads,” I hear from another universe.

John licks his lips, eyes fixed on me. His finger concludes its tapping, resting to draw a tiny circle on his kneecap before he gestures towards the door. I memorize his face again, then turn swiftly to exit the cab.

 _Breathe._ Just have to make it inside the flat.

He pays the cabbie and comes up behind me, standing...close. _Very_ close. The breeze blows gently, bathing my nose in the scents of Baker street (petrol, perfume, Chinese food, convenience store coffee) and _John_. Close my eyes, focus. He’s inside--inside my lungs, inside my skin, inside _me_. He is always inside me, even when he isn’t touching me. Inside.

Inside.

We have to make it inside.

I _need_ him inside.

_I need John inside._

Pressure. His hand on the small of my back. He knows. He _always_ knows.

Slide the key into the lock, turn the doorknob. Heart is pounding, blood is singing, breath is gasping unevenly, body is shuddering.

**_Get inside._ **


	8. Patience is a Virtue, So I'm Told

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **John Watson looks delicious.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post case adrenaline gives Sherlock some drive to try something new! Wish him luck!

“Sher--”

“Shh.”

Lips crashing together, a mess of teeth and jaws and tongues and days old stubble. Hands grasping, pulling, sliding, yanking everywhere, everywhere, _everywhere_. Chest to chest, hearts thumping against each other in a furious rhythm (mine 120 beats per minute, his 135 beats per minute). Right knee roughly shoved between his legs, thigh pressed up high and grinding slowly, back and forth. Moaning, gasping, growling fills the air around us. The universe shrinks to this moment, this space, this _heat_ between us.

Fingertips (precise, perfect) in my hair, nails (clipped four days ago) scraping at my scalp, palms (calloused yet soft, firm, strong) molding against my skull and pulling me impossibly closer, _closer_. My mouth, possessed, sucks on his pulse point (throbbing erotically against my bottom lip), then moves down his throat. I pause to kiss his clavicle, eliciting a rumbling groan from deep within his core, guttural and involuntary. My hands yank at his jumper before sliding underneath to trace his abdominals, memorizing the lines of his external obliques and rectus abdominis, feeling the natural separations of his tendons. His breath, hot in my ear at 37.22 degrees Celsius, catches in his throat before shuddering out.

“Fuck, Sh...ohhh, what...what about--”

Thumbs swirling around his nipples now, erect and hard. “Texted her, told her we were returning home. She chose to go to her sister’s for a brief holiday,” I purr, nipping at his earlobe before drawing it in and sucking on it harshly. (Can earlobes get hematomas? Curious. Worth testing.)

I keep him trapped between my body and the wall, pressing every part of me against him, around him, over him. Need need need _need_ **_need!_ **

_Not close enough._

_Not._

**_Close._ **

_Enough._

“Stairs,” I command, withdrawing my hands from inside his shirt and gripping his hips hard enough to leave slight bruises, guiding him towards the staircase. His hands settle on my biceps, squeezing, thumbs massaging along the insides of my arms.

“Giving me orders now, are we?” John asks as he shuffles backwards, trusting me to keep him from falling.

_Orders?_ Pause. Blink at him. Blink again.

He tugs me closer, rocking up onto the balls of his feet and kissing the corner of my mouth sweetly, smiling at me. “I like it,” he adds, eyes soft for exactly 3.25 seconds before darkening again in arousal. He continues moving towards the stairs until his heels hit the bottom step with two dull thumps. Fists in my shirt as he sinks down, pulling me with him, onto him. I press my hands flat on the step behind him on both sides of his ribcage, hovering above him. The expression on his face is wild, nearly feral with adrenaline fueled _need_.

Suddenly his hands are flying down my shirt, ripping open the buttons and sending them pinging across the hallway. Fingers tucking into the top of my...my... _oh_ , breathe, **_oh_** … His tongue in my ear, flicking in and out while he unbuttons my trousers…

Wait--no, **_wait!_ ** “John!” I nearly shout.

“Mmm, Sherlock,” he murmurs, placing sucking kisses along my jawline, hands still busily working at ridding me of my clothing as quickly as possible.

I--ah--wait! No, wait!!

“Wait, John, I--”

He stills. “Problem?”

I pull away, straightening my spine and squaring my shoulders, my shirt falling open and nearly sliding down my back. I adjust it and clear my throat, which feels too tight, too dry. “John, I--let me--just--” I sound like an idiot! Why can’t I just--ugh, _mouth!_ Just-- “I want to…”

Briefly, confusion across his face, then his eyes widen in understanding. A lovely, genuine smile envelopes his face, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling in adoration. His hands are still paused, fingertips resting gently on either side of my navel. He nods slowly, gaze locked with mine, and then leans back on his elbows, spreading his knees in invitation. His lips, still grinning like a Cheshire cat, are swollen and kiss bruised. Cheeks are flushed beneath his stubble, vasodilation continuing down his neck and tinting his skin a warm shade of rosy pink. His golden brown hair is disheveled, too long after our time spent on the case and sticking up at various angles.

_Delicious._

**_John Watson looks delicious_**.

My thoughts--jumbled, racing, pinging as I stare, devouring him alive in my mind. I want all of him. Every single part. Everything that he has ever been, everything that he is, everything that he will be. I want him _want him_ John _oh John_ **_want want want--_**

“Sherlock?” His eyebrows are raised slightly, his face curious and open.

Snap back to reality. Focus. He knows I was lost. He always shows me the way back. This is about John. Can’t--want to get lost again, want to _consume_ , to _own_ \---need to stay focused, present, _now._ I can--I will--

For John.

John, _my John._

“ **Mine** ,” I breathe out, voice husky. At the sound of it, his breath catches and pupils dilate until his eyes appear black and hazy with arousal. I can nearly see the flood of neurotransmitters emitted in his brain (dopamine, norepinephrine, oxytocin) encompassing his entire being in a simplistic and primal urgency. His breath speeds, pulse point throbs, mouth opens to allow his tongue a quick sweep along his too dry lips. His hips buck off the step he’s sitting on, seeking my attention.

Dip my chin, raise my eyebrows, and smirk in response. Love seeing him so eager for me. Can’t help but stare at his groin, erection straining in his usually loose yet currently _much_ tighter jeans, begging for freedom. Feel my salivary glands kick into overdrive at the thought of him, dusky purple, engorged, leaking, slick--

**_Oh God._ **

Heat, everywhere, concentrating in my lower abdomen, curling and pooling in my core, making me _ache_. “John…,” I groan as I drop to my knees between his legs, hands settling on his thighs. He gasps, eyes sliding shut as I run my palms towards his hips lethargically, grounding myself in the texture of denim against my skin.

Stay here. _Stay now_.

This is _for my John_.

Breathe, **focus**.

He wraps his legs around my waist so he can toe off his shoes while I unbutton and unzip his fly, yanking his jeans off and tossing them haphazardly behind me. The moment his legs are freed he encircles my waist again, drawing me closer to him with the hint of a smug smile on his face. Seconds later he’s lost his jumper and undershirt and is laid out on the stairs in nothing but his pants, which are tented dramatically towards me. I keep his gaze momentarily before allowing it to drift along his body.

His shoulders-- _firm strong scarred yet beautiful--_

His arms-- _muscular lean tan dusted in light brown hair_ \--

His chest-- _perfectly defined broad warm--_

His…

His…

All of him. _All of him._ **I** **need** \--

Bury my face in his groin, breathe in his uniquely sharp and sensual musk through the cotton of his pants. Feel his cells invading my airways and embedding themselves inside me; entering my bloodstream, our DNA mingling and melding. Imagine them drifting lazily through my veins, eventually settling in my very neurons, my thoughts always filled with secondary synapses whispering his name in a hypnotic mantra: _John John John…_

His hands naturally find my head as it rests in his lap, fingers carding through my curls and massaging my scalp. His breath twists and hitches in his throat as I continue breathing him in, worshipping his scent, relishing in the way his body jerks and spasms beneath me. I run my fingertips along the insides of his thighs, tracing the lines where they meet his pelvis, trailing through his delightfully coarse, dark, _masculine_ pubic hair.

“Nnngh, Sherlock...you’re torturing me!” he whines, yanking on my hair to emphasize his frustration.

I glance up at him through my eyelashes and tease, “Oh, so you can give it but you can’t take it, is that it?”

“Arsehole,” he huffs out harshly as I mouth the head of his cock through his pants. “Complete, utter-- _oh my God, Shhhh--”_ he hisses through his teeth, unable to form coherent thoughts as I suck on him, still keeping the barrier of his briefs between us. He thrusts up towards me, hips moving of their own volition until I hold him still against the stairs. A few more hot, noisy suckles before I grin wickedly up at him and hastily remove his pants, chucking them over my head.

Every time I see John like this, it’s like the first glorious time, after the pink lady case. Better than the first time, even. It’s the _best_ first time and yet I know the next time it will be even better. A million miniscule observations drown my senses--how his skin shines with arousal, how he smells of tea and sweat and British Sterling cologne, how he moans and growls, how he twitches and pants, how pink the tips of his ears get, how his eyes are hooded and dark and lazy under the fog of dopaminic pleasure. I know I will never crave a needle again now that I have the drug that is John Watson writhing beneath me.

“Get on with it, would you?”

“Tsk, tsk. Patience is a virtue, John, so I’m told.”

_“I tell you that.”_

“Like I said, so I’m told.”

“Cheeky bastard.”

Press my lips to the underside of his cock in a chaste kiss, drawing a shuddering breath from him. “You wouldn't have me any other way, Captain,” I reply knowingly before swirling my tongue around his glans, savouring the complex tang of his velvety skin. His fists tighten in my hair as he gasps, thighs tensing at the sensation. I feel his spine arch towards me as he fights to keep his hips planted, chest heaving while I continue my slow licking.

The sounds he’s making, _ohhh_ they are... _perfect_ beautiful ragged _wrecked_ and it’s me, **_it's me_** , I'm doing this to him, I'm... I'm... _oh I'm losing myself, need to,_ **_need to…_ **

Breathe. I can-- _ohhhh_ I can do this…just need to...I can... _focus_ this is for John, for John, _for John!_

I relax my grip on his hips and fan my hands out around the curve of his thighs, fingertips pressing into his arse cheeks gently while I slowly draw him into my mouth. If I could speak I would tell him how impressed I am with his self control--he was aching and I took my time, and now that I’m finally enveloping him all of the tension in his body is evaporating. He melts into the stairs, reveling in my lips, my tongue, my soft palate surrounding him _wethotslickperfect_ and he moans, _oh yes_ _he moans_ and it floods my senses, floods my being, _shakes my core_ with his **need** for me.

I watch him drown, pectoral muscles shining with sweat, head dropped back in ecstasy, lips parted as he gasps and groans, breathily uttering curses intermingled with half-spoken versions of my name. Every inhalation through my nose sends more of his cells into my lungs, his scent overpowering and brilliantly sexy. As I continue sucking, licking, gliding along him, I feel his calves flex and knees shift closer to my ribs-- _he’s watching_. A glance up at his face confirms.

_He’s watching me,_ between his legs with my _mouth on his cock_ , my cheeks hollowed and eyes widely staring back at him while his hands guide my head and set our pace.

I--ah...I... _John_ , oh, he’s...he’s perfect and gorgeous and panting for me, face flushed and stomach taut--he’s...he’s…

Can’t--I just-- _I can’t_ \--

My trousers--unbuttoned already, easy to slip my hand in and--his eyes, he knows, _he knows_ and he--he--he loves it, he loves me, _he loves_ \--

He’s moving us faster, he’s carefully thrusting, _oh God he’s thrusting into my mouth_ , every ridge, every vein, every heartbeat, every-- ** _every!_ ** My hand, _electric_ , gripping and sliding, squeezing exactly--exactly-- _ohhhh exactly there mmm oh yes John my...my…_

“Sher...fuck, Sherlock, you’re...oh my God, I--Sherlock, I--”

Pulsing--spilling--white hot _gloriousperfectbrilliant_ , John! Oh, _oh,_ **_oh,_ ** John!

Fire, fire, everything-- **all of me** \-- _oh God!_ Nerves alight, body humming, brain buzzing, legs twitching, stomach quivering _fire, John!_ Tearing through me, devouring me, consuming I-- _oh, I--I--oh_ **_YES JOHN YES!_ **

“Oh _mmmmm_ Johnnnn ohhhhhhhhh….”

_Lostlostlostlostlostlostlostlostlost_

He’s petting my hair, soothing me, helping me find my way back.  Tender fingers, stroking slowly before running along my jawline and lifting my head. “Sherlock, you with me?”

Weak nod. Muscles are warm and lax and refusing to cooperate.

“Love, that was...”

Smile. _I know,_ _John_. His eyes are soft as he looks at me, thumb caressing my cheek gently. A quiet chuckle, felt more than heard, through his body. “Suppose we should head up and get ourselves into bed, hmm?” he asks. “I’m knackered.”

“Hm.”

“Come on then. Up you go. Don’t bother with the lights. Let’s just get cleaned up and go to sleep,” he suggests, glancing around the hallway for his discarded clothing. “What time is Mrs. Hudson returning tomorrow?”

Shake my head. “She’s not. Weekend away.”

John purses his lips briefly before sighing. “You scared her away for an entire weekend because we were coming home?”

“As if I have that much control over her, John, _really_. She chose to leave for the weekend. Told me she’d rather get some sleep than stay up all night listening to our--”

“Right, okay. That’s--okay. Good, fine. Let’s just go upstairs, shall we?”

“After you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recognize that this is a slight dynamic shift from earlier and hope it didn't put anyone off! Please leave comments or message me on Tumblr (haveanaffairwithme) if you wanna chat about it! 
> 
> Thank you as always to my beta-Jawn. 
> 
> Also thank you to [ Smeared Black Ink ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmearedBlackInk/pseuds/SmearedBlackInk) for giving me such awesome fangirl encouragement about this one.
> 
> Looking forward to wrapping this up in the next chapter! Thanks for sticking it out with me!


	9. The Idiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you won’t figure it out by scrutinizing my clothing, Sherlock,” he states evenly from behind the paper, a smile in his tone. He’s really enjoying this too much. It’s _infuriating._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this last chapter got so delayed! I was sideswiped by the holidays. Thank you for your patience!!

Mmm, silky sheets sliding as I shift my legs, rolling onto my stomach. Drifting...so cozy, warm...lids are heavy, muscles lax, sleepy. Breathing is deep, fulfilling…

??????

What’s the noise? I feel...no, I’m... _outside_? In...where? When, and more importantly _why_ did I decide to go on a safari? Horrible plan, and now I’m...is that a **_lion_ ** making that noise? Short, irritated huffs...I should find John, he can help. It’s getting closer...where is John?! Louder--my heart is pounding--

“John!!”

It’s here, the lion, it’s...talking? _Lions don’t talk._ What is going on? What is it...is it saying my name? “Sherrrrrrrrlock….,” it growls angrily. “Wake up Sherlock!”

What--

Black. Everything _black_ \--

Why is it--

Oh. _Sigh_.

“Mmmrph...Jawn…,” I mumble.

“Morning sleepy head,” I hear as I fight out of the deep fog of unconsciousness, body despising every second. Inhale, yawn, blink. Blink again. It’s too bright in here. Wince, turn to glare at the (annoying open) window drapes before sinking deeper into my pillow. Go away world. _I’m busy_.

“Nope, c’mon. You left the kitchen a mess and I don’t even think I can get tea without catching...well, whatever it is you were growing in there,” John says as he pulls the duvet away.

“Mm, non-replicating…,” I murmur, attempting (and failing) to yank the covers back up to my neck. My arm snaps towards my head as my fingers lose their grip and I narrowly miss punching myself in the cheek. Another glare--this one aimed at my harasser. “Go ‘way, Jaawwwwnnnn,” I grumble through a yawn. “Ask Hudders for tea.”

Quick exhalation of breath--a suppressed laugh. Then, “Don’t think she’d appreciate me turning up in my starkers looking for tea,” he comments, sounding a bit embarrassed.

John is... _naked?_ Hiding my motivation behind a yawn, I turn to face him and take a peek. He’s standing near the doorway, hands on his hips and completely, utterly nude. The flush in his cheeks has spread down his neck, colouring the skin over his clavicles. I moan internally (God I hope it was internally) and battle my competing desires for sleep and sex...and tea.

Sigh. Sleep, then tea. Unlikely I have the energy for sex currently. _Disappointing_. Sex later.

“Clothes, then. Obvious,” I groan, burrowing into the bed as far as I’m able. “Really, John…”

“Wait--no--didn’t you say last night she’s gone to her sister’s? For the weekend or something?”

 _Shit_ , he’s right. “Speedy’s,” I offer, hoping he’ll give up and leave me to my cocoon. “There’s cash in my wallet, in my jacket--take it. Have mercy on me, Jawn…” My lids slide shut again.

Movement around the room, a sigh of consternation, and then the door clicking shut.

 _Marvelous_.

* * *

Days, minutes, hours, weeks--who knows or cares. I’m fully awake now, having finished recharging after our intense and frustratingly drawn out case. The water from my damp hair slowly trickles down my neck as I consider my clothing for the day, standing in front of the wardrobe with a towel slung low around my hips.

Two _bloody_ **_long_ ** weeks on a case--tee shirt, pyjama bottoms, and dressing gown it is. Towel the excess from my (too long, need to get a trim) locks and dress before heading out to join John for tea. There’s a cup waiting for me next to my chair, which I sink into comfortably. John’s fully dressed now and has today’s paper in his lap. Never thought I would enjoy this quiet domesticity as much as I do in this moment. Then again, never thought I would find myself a man like John to share it with. I lift the china to my lips ( _of course_ he transferred our tea from the takeaway cups to something more suitable), a contented sigh escaping involuntarily before I take a sip. The clock in the kitchen ticks quietly. The noise of traffic, muffled, continues outside our windows.

Another happy sigh.

“So, then. How’s the experiment going?”

Swallow my tea. Blink. Blink again. What?

John’s looking at me, eyebrows raised. He’s...calm? Yes, calm. Shoulders relaxed, hands still. Holding the paper open against his lap.

I narrow my eyes at him, clench and unclench my jaw. Take another sip of tea. What is he talking about? I’m not doing any experiments. Well, there’s the experiment in the kitchen that still needs cleaning, but... _surely he_ **_knows_ ** that it’s rubbish at this point. I abandoned it for two weeks for the case we were on. I purse my lips, cock my head to the side, and reply. “John...I’m...tea.” I nod at my hand and huff through my nose, my forehead tensing. I’m confused. _Hateful_. Must have slept too long--I feel sluggish, too slow. _Disgusting_.

He barely smiles. “Yeah, I can see that. Not what I meant, you know.”

 **_No, I don’t._ ** John, you must able to see that. I’ve no idea what is going on.

He’s watching me, expression open. Slowly, realization shifts his features from neutral to amused. He knows I don’t know, and apparently he finds it funny. _Annoying._

“Care to elaborate on your little inside joke?” I nearly snarl at him, all pleasantries evaporating.

A chuckle and short shake of his head. The paper rises to put a boundary between us--blocking him from my irritability and frustrated glaring.

“What, John!?”

He hums noncommittally in response, keeping his posture relaxed. He knows how to hide most of his tells from me, now (except his face, which he has conveniently obscured by the paper). My eyes dart all over the rest of his body, scanning frantically for a detail, a clue, as to what is going on.

Bare feet--obvious. Always goes bare in the flat if he can help it. Feet get too hot. Years of wearing combat boots in the desert. He appreciates feeling safe enough to go without shoes. An indication of his continued transition to civilian life, which pleases me.

Jeans--five years old, given to him by Harry before Afghanistan. Barely worn until the past year, didn’t have much opportunity. Wears them now on “lounge around” days (typically the day after a case concludes). Could have predicted that in my sleep. John’s a creature of routine.

Brown leather belt--had it since he bought it on tour in Italy 7 years ago. Soft, comfortable. Holes are wearing out a bit, but he will continue using it until he cracks completely. Too frugal to buy a replacement before it’s necessary. The same brown belt he used to bind me to our headboard and--

 **_Focus_**.

Black and white cotton/acrylic blend jumper, small tea stain on his right cuff--tried four times to get it out. Even asked Mrs. Hudson to help. Gave up after that. Wears it anyway-- _sentiment_. Gift from his mother at Christmas last year. Another comfort item, for lounging. Even as a civilian, John maintains a uniform.

“If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you won’t figure it out by scrutinizing my clothing, Sherlock,” he states evenly from behind the paper, a smile in his tone. He’s really enjoying this too much. It’s _infuriating_.

“Then tell me.”

He turns to the next page in the paper.

“John.”

His finger twitches. _Twice_.

Oh.

 _No._ No…

There’s...no way. **Can’t be.**

Can it?

No, **I’ve been careful**. _Haven’t even written anything down._

No. Can’t be it. _He can’t possibly…_

He crosses his ankles, right over left. I stare as his right foot rests in the gap between his big toe and the rest on his left foot. It flexes periodically, toes wiggling. I glance up and watch his hands. His finger twitches _again_ , then worries the newspaper, barely.

He knows.

 ** _The BASTARD!_** **_He KNOWS!!_**

How could I be so stupid!? That’s why his reactions have been so tempered, so even--not at all what I was expecting! All of my data is useless! _He’s been playing me the entire time!_

Ooh, you _arsehole_.

“How long?” I ask quietly, struggling to keep the venom out of my voice.

He uncrosses his ankles, switches his feet. Left on top, now. He hasn’t turned the page for a few minutes. He’s not actually reading. He’s _waiting_.

“Ah, from the beginning then.” I hear him lick his lips. “Almost the beginning, anyway. It was…” His right hand flexes, crinkling the paper. “It was the books, wasn’t it? Mm, yes, the books. And the article I left up on your laptop. You know, at the time, I found it odd that you didn't comment. You obviously knew I had placed it there, but you never said a word. Out of character, although i dismissed it at the time as your continuing exasperation with me. Oh, _John Watson._ I get so much attention for my intellect and ability to solve crimes and yet **here you are,**  outwitting me. _You played me, John_.”

He breathes evenly in and out, and then lowers the paper to his lap, folding it shut and setting it aside. His eyes lock with mine and he _waits_. His gaze is intense. He’s expecting something from me. He won’t speak until I…

“Why?”

A half-smirk, the left side of his mouth pulling up and his eyes softening. “Because you’re an idiot.”

“Clearly. But why?”

He barks out a laugh, looking at the fireplace. He can’t keep the smile off his face, now, and it’s infectious. I find myself smiling too, lips pressed together as I try to suppress it. I look at my feet. My turn to wait.

“You know, Sherlock,” he begins, his tone bordering on amusement and annoyance. “I have never really minded the experiments in the flat. Sure, at times they’re dangerous or disgusting, but I have not _minded them,_ not really, hm? I’ve stayed with you despite those things because, well...to be honest, it’s worth it to stay.”

Wait--but...I… “What about...you left for the entire night after we had a row about it and then you refused to have sex with me for _two entire weeks_ , John. That isn’t...that _must_ mean you **_mind_** , at least sometimes. I was merely trying to find...well, to find the line between minding and not minding,” I attempt to explain, frowning. God, I sound ridiculous.

He sighs, looking up at the ceiling and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You’re frustrated with me.”

Another long suffering sigh.

“You’re _disappointed_ in me.”

Finally, he brings his gaze back down. “I forget sometimes how spectacularly ignorant you can be, especially when it comes to interaction with human beings. Sherlock...I don’t mind the experiments, but I _mind_ when you insult my intelligence. You’re right--people see me as inferior to you. I’m seen as...well, as your _pet_ , sometimes. As your tagalong, a comparison point to show how brilliant you are.”

“John, that’s not--I don’t see you--”

“No, no, I know,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “I know you _basically_ don’t. Yet sometimes you still act that way. Sometimes you still say things like that to me, and it’s...well, it’s not good. So yes--I played you. You called me an idiot, so I decided to _prove you wrong_.”

 **Oh.** The heat of embarrassment creeps up the back of my neck as I replay our initial fight from a few months ago.

 

> _“I really doubt Molly Hooper would have given me diseased skin samples, John. Don’t be an--”_
> 
> _“A what, Sherlock? An IDIOT?!”_

I should have noticed that. There’s always _something_. Ugh, stupid! How could I...this wasn’t about anger. This was about _hurt_. I hurt him. _I hurt John._ **Unacceptable.**

“John...I...I am _sorry._ You are _anything_ but a tagalong, a pet, or whatever else anyone wants to call you that indicates you are anything less than my equal, if not ten times better than me. Forgive me,” I croak, fighting against the sting in the corner of my eyes. “I am the idiot in this relationship. Obviously.”

He blinks and swallows, then scratches at the skin next to his nose, attempting to deflect the intensity of his emotion. John clears his throat, jaw working briefly before he answers. “Yeah, of course, Sherlock. I forgive you. And you are _most definitely_ the idiot between the two of us.” A grin overtakes his face. “Only _you_ would do something like this. An experiment? I mean, _really,_ Sherlock?”

The tension of our conversation dissipating leaves me giggling. “I even created a scale of measurement for your reactions, John. _The Rage Scale,_ ” I announce with a dramatic flourish of my hands.

“You...you berk. You’re serious?”

I laugh. “It does sound ridiculous when I say it out loud, doesn’t it?”

“Utterly ridiculous. Now come here, idiot, and kiss me,” he commands.

As I get up from my chair, I couldn’t be happier to be John Watson’s idiot. I place my hands for support and lean down to brush my lips against his. A continuation of my apology, initially. He exhales heavily through his nose before reaching up to cup my face in his hands, thumbs sliding over my cheekbones as he accepts. His tongue darts out, tasting my bottom lip before entering my mouth and sliding lazily around. The warmth of affection ignites us both and something shifts deep within, coiling low in my gut and spreading like wildfire, tingling through my limbs and making my heart race. One of his hands finds its way to the back of my head, threading through my curls and yanking me back. I gasp, eyes locked with his. His pupils are tremendously dilated and an evil grin slowly creeps across his face. He glances pointedly down at my groin, my arousal evident through my pyjama bottoms and distinct lack of pants.

He tightens his grip in my hair, the follicles burning in my scalp with glorious, _delicious_ pain. My blood sings in my veins, pulsing and throbbing through me and settling deep in the base of my cock.

“Mm, John, I--” He licks along my jawbone, then places his hands on my chest and pushes me away. “John?”

“ _Kitchen,_ Sherlock. We will continue this **after** you make that kitchen spotless,” he replies calmly, picking up his paper again.

“John, I--oh, John. _Please_ , John, you can’t--you know that I’m--” I gesture wildly towards my erection. “At least let me--”

“ **Now,** Holmes.” His Captain voice shoots straight through me, making me dizzy with arousal.

Shudder, let out a shaky breath. **_“Yes, sir.”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dom John, always winning in the end. As if we were surprised!!
> 
> Thank you ALL for reading and supporting me throughout this process! I have really enjoyed this one tremendously. I also remembered how challenging writing decent smut is with this piece. **Please, please, please leave kudos/comments** , and if you liked this one check out my other works! 
> 
> Next up for me is working on Mutual Affection while still popping out little updates on Lost from time to time. Along with some other little ficlets here and there. Thanks again for sticking with me and being such great fans!!
> 
> Until next time!


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